


Where the Light Is

by GraboidFarmer (MostlyCharmless)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Brothers, Cryptozoology, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Paranormal, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Weirdmageddon, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Burn, Spoilers - Journal 3, Though she be but little she is fierce, Twins, reader is a badass, reader is a nerd, reader is smol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29346357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyCharmless/pseuds/GraboidFarmer
Summary: After a terrible end to an even more terrible relationship, your cousin's invitation to stay with her and her boyfriend in their sleepy little town sounds like exactly the kind of fresh start you need. It also just happens to follow right on the heels of your discovery of a very strange book. Soon you find yourself face-to-face with the Author, and you aren't sure which one of you is more surprised. Before you know it, you're pulled into a world of danger and wonder and paranormal phenomena, and at the heart of it, a brilliant, six-fingered scientist who doesn't know the meaning of "low-key". What is it about Stanford Pines that draws you like the Moth-man to a lamp post? And when the hell are you going to get to see a plaidypus?
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines/Original Female Character(s), Ford Pines/Reader, Jesus "Soos" Alzamirano Ramirez/Melody
Comments: 59
Kudos: 66





	1. Nothing to See Here Folks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written in second person before. I've also never written in present tense. Uhhh... This should be interesting??

The trees seem to go on forever. They rise up on either side as you navigate your car down the narrow, twisting two-lane road, stretching toward the sky like monoliths and blocking out the weak late afternoon sun. The endless rows of massive trunks have an almost hypnotic effect as they rush past you in a continuous blur, making it difficult to focus. If you didn't know better, you would swear there was a strange force pulling your vehicle deeper into the woods, beckoning you inexorably onward.

Nah, that's stupid.

Although, if you are being honest with yourself, there is something just a little unsettling about the circumstances surrounding this journey you've decided to embark upon. Your cousin's invitation to stay with her and her boyfriend in the small town in which she recently settled, while extremely kind, coincided suspiciously with a very strange purchase you recently made. Of course, it may not mean anything. Coincidences happen all the time. Besides, you would have accepted the invitation either way. It was exactly the push you needed to get the hell away from the nightmare that has been your life for the past few years.

As your driving playlist loops back on itself yet again, you heave a sigh. _Come on, you can do this,_ you tell yourself, yawning for the tenth time in as many minutes. _You're almost there. Just a few more miles._

When you absolutely cannot hear another song by the Strokes, you switch off the stereo and let your mind drift back to the last few months. All those days wading through legal jargon with your attorney, not sure if you even had a decent case to present. Waiting an eternity for the court date. Wondering if it was even worth it to expect justice at all. And through it all, the pervading fear that has been your constant companion for longer than you care to remember. The fear of what the lying bastard might do next.

Yes, you're doing the right thing. Anything is better than what you're leaving behind.

Before long, you pass through a little canyon. Looking up, you see that each sheer cliff face has a strange wedge-shaped gash cut into it, almost as if by design. The two sides are connected by a railroad bridge. Suddenly, so quickly it almost escapes your notice, a billboard flashes past you, announcing your arrival at what, for better or worse, is now your new home:

_Welcome to Gravity Falls_   
**"Nothing to See Here Folks"**

Well, that's... Huh.

Nonplussed by the sign's content and vaguely irritated by its lack of a comma, you continue driving until at last the trees give way to open sky, a beautiful blue expanse above a bowl-shaped valley. Nestled in this valley, surrounded by a sea of evergreens, lies a little town. Gravity Falls, Oregon.

Slowing down, you drive through the center of town, taking in the sights. For a small town, it seems to have its fair share of attractions. There's an arcade, a bowling alley, a miniature golf course, a laser tag arena (wow, they still have those?). You even see a sign pointing the way toward a public pool (closed until summer). What you're looking for at the moment, however, is the Gravity Falls Public Library, and after a few minutes, you find it in the main square, next to the town's only church. An attractive log and stone structure with stained glass windows, it looks more like a ski chalet than a municipal building.

A week ago, you sent the library's manager your resume, and she wrote back almost immediately, informing you that they were in need of part time work. After a brief phone interview, in which you discussed your credentials and your experience, you were invited to come for a second interview. This late in the day, of course, the library has already closed its doors, but now that you know where it is, you won't have to look for it tomorrow.

As you sit in your idling car, taking in the sleepy town, your stomach voices its displeasure, reminding you that you haven't eaten anything other than a bag of trail mix all day. As anxious as you are to settle into your new digs, you don't want your cousin to feel obligated to feed you. Turning your vehicle around, you cruise slowly through town again, but nothing looks promising. Not even that fast food place with the enormous ax sticking out of the roof called Yumberjacks.

Finally, almost on the edge of town, something catches your eye: a sign advertising a place called Greasy's Diner. The restaurant itself, amazingly, is in the shape of a giant log, and built on top of a railroad flat car. You're starting to sense a lumber theme in this town. But you're starving, and this looks like the best option at the moment. Easing your car into the parking lot, you climb out and stretch your stiff, tired body.

The air smells... amazing. Like woodsmoke and sage and sun-warmed pine needles. You breathe deeply, for what feels like the first time in years. For no reason that you can easily identify, you find yourself blinking back tears. How can something so simple be enough to overwhelm you?

Collecting yourself, you walk into the diner. It's not the most immaculate of environments, but it's not the worst you've seen. The important thing is that it's nearly full. The hostess invites you to take a seat anywhere, but that's easier said than done. Eventually you find an empty spot at the counter, between a family of rambunctious redheads wearing plaid and an older gentleman in a trench coat and a turtleneck who barely seems to notice your presence as he sits frowning over a thick book, pausing every now and then to bring forkfuls of omelet toward the general location of his mouth.

Shortly a plump waitress with a droopy eyelid and a friendly manner offers you a menu and takes your drink order. You decide on iced tea — just enough caffeine content to sustain you for the rest of the day, but not enough to keep you awake all night.

"Sure thing, hon," the waitress replies amiably. "You take a look at the menu, and I'll be right back."

You peruse the diner's rather limited menu, which boasts breakfast all day, trying to ignore the gnawing sensation in your empty stomach and failing. Practically everything is either deep-fried, covered in gravy, or both. Then again, the word "greasy" is in the actual title of the restaurant. It's not as if you weren't warned.

You're about to settle on a BLT when a baritone voice makes its way unobtrusively into your thoughts: "Get the Denver omelet."

You turn and glance up at the man beside you, but his gaze is still fixed on his book. "Are you... Were you speaking to me?" you ask. 

For a moment there is no reply, and you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. Then he arches a bushy eyebrow over his glasses. "Denver omelet. Trust me on this."

You're tempted to say that you only trust a handful of people and he is decidedly not one of them, but you're intrigued despite your wariness. And, you have to admit, an omelet does sound pretty good right now. Slowly, you nod your acknowledgment.

The waitress returns with your iced tea, and at your dining companion's recommendation, you order the Denver omelet. As you wait for your food to arrive, you spot a rack of newspapers by the door and impulsively purchase one. You bring your copy of the _Gravity Falls Gossiper_ back to your seat and browse its adorably quirky articles with titles like "Goat Tipping Rash Continues, Goats Unharmed" and "Azalea Gardens Open for Spring Season; Locals Say 'It's Something to Do'".

A loud buzzing interrupts your perusal of an article about beaver-themed quilts, nearly causing you to drop your glass of iced tea. Fishing your phone out of your pocket, you see a text notification from an unknown number.

Suddenly your heart begins pounding in your chest. _Son of a bitch, not again._ Swallowing hard, you unlock your phone and open your messaging app. Sure enough, it's him. Because of course it is.

**You can block me all you want, but it won't do any good. I'm not finished with you. You ruined my life, and you're not going to get away with it.**

As your eyes scan over the words, your fear dissolves into boiling anger and that familiar sensation of your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Where does he get the nerve to claim that _you_ ruined _his_ life, when he's the one who tried his damnedest to destroy yours? If holding him accountable and forcing him to make restitution for his actions constitutes "ruining his life", then he only has himself to blame.

You're tempted to reply to his text, to tell him all of this, but you know it wouldn't make any difference. He is incapable of reflecting on what he's done, and no amount of arguing will ever change that. You can't appeal to someone's conscience if they don't have one to begin with.

God, you're so _sick_ of this! When will you be free?

Shoving your phone back in your pocket, you slam down your glass with far more force than you intended. You watch in horror as its base comes down hard on the counter, shattering into several pieces. Tea goes everywhere — washing over the counter like a tidal wave, dripping into your lap, soaking your jeans, and spilling onto the plate of the man sitting next to you.

For a moment you can't do anything but stare. Neither, it seems, can the man beside you.

At last you say, "Shit."

The man bursts into hearty laughter, taking off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. "Wow," he exclaims in amusement. "Hell of a grip you've got there, Mighty Mouse."

His laughter succeeds in jolting you out of your paralysis, and you hastily grab your napkin. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, sir," you tell him, attempting to mop up the mess and collect the shards of your broken glass. "I guess I don't know my own strength. Please, let me get you another omelet."

"No, no, that's not necessary," he replies, replacing his spectacles. There's something a little off about his hand, but you can't quite put your finger on it. "I'll just eat around it."

As you look on, the man picks up his fork and makes a valiant effort to behave as if his dinner hasn't been ruined, wincing with each bite. Finally you can't take anymore.

"This..." You shake your head. "I'm sorry, no. This is the saddest thing I've ever seen. You're going to end up eating glass." You flag down the waitress, who looks at the disaster area you created with some surprise. "Excuse me? Could this gentleman get another Denver omelet, please? Put it on my bill." 

"Can do, hon." She clears away the debris and considerately hands you a towel to dry yourself off.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," the man says. You smile weakly in reply; you owe him a new meal, after all. It's only right.

"I don't think I've seen you here before," he continues conversationally. "New resident, or just passing through?" 

You're not sure how much you should say. As nice and understanding as the man is, he's still a total stranger. "I'm staying with relatives for a while," you say after a moment.

"Ah, well. In that case, welcome to Gravity Falls." 

You thank him. Shortly, the waitress brings your omelet, which you offer to the man as a replacement for the one you ruined. He refuses to take it, however, arguing that you look like you need it more. You can't deny that you're famished, and your protests are feeble at best. Eventually you cave and take a bite, unable to hold back a moan. He was right; that's a damned good omelet. Hiding a smug smile, he returns to his book.

You've nearly devoured all of it by the time the waitress returns. "Here ya go, Doc," she says, sliding a new plate in front of the gentleman. 

"Hmm? Oh, thank you, Susan." Reluctantly, he sets his book aside and casts a glance in your direction. "And thank you." 

You smile again. "No problem."

You notice that the waitress called him "Doc", and briefly wonder what kind of doctor he is. In the end, though, your dinner succeeds in taking all of your attention.

Too soon, your plate is empty. For a while you stare longingly at the pie case, but decide it's probably time to leave. You pay your bill, leaving a generous tip to atone for the damage you caused, and stand up. As you hoist your purse onto your shoulder, the man next to you looks up.

"Thanks again," he tells you.

"Sure," you answer. "Have a nice night." 

"Likewise. Enjoy your stay." 

You leave the diner and step out into the warm evening air, filling your lungs with that heady scent of pine and woodsmoke. Night has nearly fallen, and a few stars are just beginning to show in the darkening sky. You cross the parking lot to your car and get inside. Pulling out your phone, you consult your navigation app and confirm that your destination is only a mile and a half away. You commit the route to memory and close the app.

And then you block the last person who texted you.

Even without the assistance of your phone, it would be hard for you to miss the place. As you turn off the main road, cross a little stream, and find yourself on a winding dirt drive through the forest, signs shouting "AMAZING!" and "BEHOLD!" in all caps point the way every dozen feet or so. You follow the signs deeper into the woods, and at last you arrive in a clearing in the trees. In the middle of the clearing is a cabin.

It's an old cabin, and it's showing its age. Moss grows on its steeply slanted roof, which appears to have been patched multiple times over the years. It's covered with yet more signs, some indicating the entrance, another advertising a gift shop, another proclaiming the place "world famous", and still another informing visitors that there are "no refunds". But the largest sign sits atop the cabin itself in enormous letters, announcing the name of the establishment in question — the Mystery Shack.

Or, rather, the Mystery "Hack". The _S_ has fallen halfway down the roof at some point.

Smiling to yourself, you park beside a battered pick-up and practically fall out of your car. Your arrival was anticipated, and as you look around and notice a rather large totem pole towering above you, one of the cabin's doors bangs open and a young woman comes out onto the porch. She has tanned skin, a full figure, and golden brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She's wearing a baseball cap and a T-shirt with a large question mark emblazoned on the front. As she catches sight of you, she lets out a squeal and breaks into a run.

"Eee! You made it, cuz!" Melody exclaims, colliding into you and hugging you tightly. "I hope it was easy to find."

You laugh as you return her embrace just as fiercely. "I don't know, I think you need more signs," you tell her jokingly. "It's great to see you, Mel."

Melody is a somewhat distant cousin, but despite being quite a bit younger than you, she's always been your favorite relative. You watched her grow up, and you're glad to see that she's found a nice home for herself, as well as a genuinely nice guy.

Right on cue, a large, heavyset young man approaches from the direction of the Mystery Shack and gives you a hearty high-five that leaves your palm with a satisfying sting. "Hey, lady-dude, you made it! How was the drive?"

You beam up at the gentle giant known as Jesus "Soos" Ramirez. Despite never having met him in person, other than a few conversations over Skype, you feel like you know him already. He's quite possibly the most good-natured person you've ever encountered in your life. "Hey, Soos," you say. "It wasn't too bad. Thanks again for letting me stay with you guys."

"Oh, yeah, the more the merrier, dude," he says easily. "Let me get your bags for you."

"No, that's okay, you don't have to—"

Ignoring your protests, Soos takes your luggage and proceeds to carry it to the Shack. With a shrug, Melody slings an arm around your shoulders, and you both follow him through the door and into the gift shop. The room is small, but filled with all manner of souvenirs, including snow globes, shirts, caps, keychains, and other knicknacks. There are also some decidedly weirder items: jars of eyeballs, a stone Aztec calendar, some kind of Fiji Mermaid-type taxidermy nightmare in a glass case, the mounted head of a bear with... Is that a narwhal tusk? These, you presume, are not for sale.

As you look around, an item in the corner catches your eye: a life-size statue of a man in a suit and fez, leaning on a cane. At the base of the statue is a plaque that reads "Our Founder". The likeness is a bit crudely rendered, but there's something contagious about the crazy grin on his face. You can't help smiling back.

"This place is awesome," you remark to Soos as he leads you through an 'Employees Only' door and into the rest of the house. You almost say _hilarious_ , but catch yourself at the last second, because you don't want to hurt his feelings. His pride in this place is almost palpable.

"I'll give you the tour tomorrow, if you want," he suggests brightly. "What time's your interview at the book rental place?" 

"Library," Melody corrects him gently. 

"Uhh, yeah, that." 

You suppress a smile. "My interview isn't until four o'clock," you assure him. "Plenty of time for a tour." 

"Sweet. Let me show you where you'll be staying." 

He leads you deeper into the house, passing a small living room, where a little old lady sits knitting in a recliner and listening to mariachi music on the radio. Soos introduces her as his grandmother, and she looks up and smiles, her needles never pausing. Finally, you go up a rickety staircase to the Shack's attic, and Soos pushes open a door with his shoulder.

You look curiously past him into the room beyond. It's larger than you expected, even taking into account its slanted walls. There's a bed and a nightstand in one corner, a dresser in the other, and a window in the far wall with a view of the forest. It appears an attempt was made to clean up the room and make it homier, but it's still rather spartan and empty.

Melody comes to stand beside you, looking somewhat abashed. "It's cozier than it looks, I swear." 

"No, I like it," you say with a smile. "It's delightfully creepy." 

She laughs. After Soos deposits your bags next to the bed, he goes back downstairs, stopping to remove the baseball cap from Melody's head and drop a kiss in her hair. She shoves him playfully, her cheeks pink.

"I'm really glad you decided to come," she says after he leaves the two of you. "I hope you like it here. When I came to visit last summer, I just fell in love with this place." 

"And with a certain, endearing sentient marshmallow who shall remain nameless," you add with a knowing smirk.

Melody laughs again. "That, too." She sighs and leans against the doorframe, kicking at nothing with her sandal. "I just... wish the circumstances were better. _You_ deserved so much better, cuz." 

You ignore the sudden pang in your chest at her words. As well-intentioned as her sympathy may be, you're tired of people feeling sorry for you. You just want to move on. "Thanks, Mel," you say, trying to smile. "But I'm considering it a lucky escape... and a chance to start over." 

"Totes." She straightens with an air of finality. "Anyway, I'll let you get settled in. Did you eat?" 

You nod. "Yeah, I stopped at Greasy's." 

"Oh, man," she says, her head falling back with a rapturous expression. "That place may look like a dive, but their food is _insane_. Well, you're probably beat, so I'll let you rest. There's a monster movie marathon on tonight, if you're interested. Take your mind off... whatever." 

"Sounds great." 

Her footsteps retreat down the staircase, and you turn back toward the room. It looks like there used to be two beds in here, and you wonder where the other one went. It's actually quite a nice little space. At some point you'll probably get some curtains, a couple of plants, maybe a cool lamp. The important thing is, it's peaceful. The only sounds are the settling of the house's beams, the murmur of voices, the faint sound of mariachi music. You could get used to this.

You move to the window, but there isn't much to see. Night has fallen outside, and you can only just barely make out the outline of the pine trees against the sky. The stars, however, are incredible. One of the advantages of living in a small town.

Reluctantly, you begin to unpack your meager belongings, pulling out clothes and stowing them in the dresser. When your suitcase is empty, you move on to your second piece of luggage, a hard-shell valise full of books. You make a mental note to hunt down a bookcase for your small collection of cherished volumes. For now, you place them one by one on the nightstand.

Finally, you pull out the last book and sit down on the edge of the bed, turning it over and over in your hands — the book you bought over a month ago at that City Hall fundraiser and bake sale. The book you found in a pile of unclaimed and confiscated items.

A battered old journal with a silk bookmark, a cracked magnifying glass on a ribbon, and a gold, six-fingered hand with the number '3' on the cover.


	2. Please Take This Cursed Thing Off Our Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! I'm so glad you liked the first chapter. I happen to be snowed in at the moment, so I literally have nothing to do but write. So here's an extra long chapter for you.
> 
> By the way, spoilers for Journal 3. If you haven't read it, DO IT.

You wake suddenly after a restless night of tossing and turning on your narrow bed, your heart rate and respiration elevated. You've never been able to sleep well in unfamiliar surroundings. Then again, you haven't been able to sleep much lately, period. There was something about living with a sociopath that always kept you from relaxing completely. Even now, over a year after you kicked him out, sleep doesn't come easily. And on the rare occasions it does, of course, the dreams come with it. You hate the dreams.

Throwing back your covers and swinging your legs out of bed, you stand up, wincing as the cold wooden floor creaks under your bare feet. You remind yourself to put a rug on your shopping list. A clock, as well; you forgot to plug in your phone last night to charge it, and now you have no idea what time it is. You look out the window to see that the sky is still dark, save for a few streaks of pink and orange. Early morning, then. Fantastic.

It's just as well. One of the advantages of being an early riser is that you have plenty of time to do your warm-up exercises. Sitting in the middle of the floor, you bow once, then face the opposite side of the room and bow again. Then you begin your stretches, loosening the muscles in your back, legs, shoulders, arms, and even your wrists and fingers. Once you're limber, you go into a series of lunges and pivots. Your feet make a soft swishing sound as you slide across the dusty floor, always making sure to keep your weight forward on the balls of your feet. Once you've done this several times, you add hand motions to the mix: right foot forward, raise arms, pivot onto left foot, bring arms down in a diagonal slice. Step backward, arms up, pivot, slice downward. Step, up, pivot, slice.

And then swear profusely as you accidentally bring your hands down at full velocity onto the top of your dresser.

Note to self: Find a larger area to practice.

After you've gone through your forms, you bow again and stand up. Then, as is the case more and more often, you find your gaze drifting toward the book at the very top of the stack on your bedside table. The journal.

It was a little over a month ago when you first laid eyes on it. An acquaintance of yours in the Salem Department of Parks and Recreation called you, not so much asking as _begging_ if you would bring something to their annual bake-off in order to raise money for an art program. You hadn't felt like baking or doing much of anything else for a long time, but you figured it might be cathartic. Digging out your old cookbooks, you found a recipe for lemon chiffon cupcakes and got to work before you could talk yourself out of it.

Two bowls of over-whipped egg whites and one first-degree burn later, you managed to make something you were rather proud of. Placing your fluffy creations in the passenger seat of your car, you drove very carefully to the bake-off, which was being held in the plaza between the library and City Hall. They were still setting up when you arrived, and after you were shown a place to leave your cupcakes, you had no choice but to wander around aimlessly.

You milled about for a while, looking at the various baked goods on offer, debating whether or not you should buy anything. On the one hand, you definitely didn't need any of those caramel shortbread bars, but then again, did anyone really _need_ caramel shortbread bars? At least it was for a good cause. You had finally made up your mind when something caught your eye: a stall announcing lost and confiscated items for sale. Curious, you made your way over to the table. Among the boxes of flasks, tools, umbrellas, and old flip-phones, you spotted a pile of books, and you were drawn to them almost automatically.

Most of the books were cheesy Harlequin romance novels or mass-market paperback thrillers. You picked up one book which featured a picture of Bigfoot and was titled _The Psychic Sasquatch and Their UFO Connection_ , which only made you wonder about the correct plural form of "Sasquatch" and whether they would even care. Shaking your head, you set it down and started to reach for another when you caught a flash of something metallic. Pushing the paperbacks aside, you uncovered a large, thick journal bound in what was at one time maroon silk, but was now more of a dirty reddish-brown, and torn in several places.

Gingerly, you picked it up. It was clearly old. The corners were edged with decorative brass pieces, and there was a small magnifying glass attached to the spine with a ribbon, the lens of which was cracked. The back had a few strange symbols drawn right on the silk. Most intriguing of all, though, was the large golden image of a six-fingered hand on the cover. On the back of the hand was written the number '3' in black ink.

Frowning, you opened the cover. On the inside, someone from the Parks Department had taped a note, which read:

**TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:**

**The Parks Department of the state of Oregon was on a routine moose-tagging mission when we located this item, a strange, dust-covered book, lying in the center of a mossy clearing. Quick perusal reveals paranoid ramblings, demonic sketches, descriptions of nonsensical creatures, and uncrackable ciphers.**

**We believed this to be either a prank by high schoolers or the ramblings of a local fraud. But since discovering this book, a number of our troopers have had headaches and disturbing nightmares. We have logged it in our records and are now putting it up for purchase at our annual Confiscated Items Sale/Bake-Off.**

**Please take this cursed thing off our hands.**

  
Was this a joke? It had to be. Some smartass in the Parks Department playing a prank. Too bad it wasn't even close to Halloween, or it would make more sense. You turned to the flyleaf, where you found something else taped inside — a bookplate which at one time revealed the identity of the book's owner, but was ripped at the bottom. Convenient, you thought, rolling your eyes. The following page simply read " _Vol. 3 — Ad astra per aspera!_ " in handwritten letters.

_Through hardships to the stars._

You turned another page and began reading what was obviously a journal entry, written in a fine scrawl and interspersed with strange sketches and codes.

_**June 18,** _

_**It's hard to believe it's been six years since I began researching the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls, Oregon. In all my travels, never have I observed so many curious things! Gravity Falls is indeed a geographical oddity.** _

Gravity Falls? Where had you heard that name before? Wasn't that where your cousin Melody had recently moved, to live with her boyfriend? You weren't even sure where it was, exactly. What were the odds?

As you read on, you began to feel strangely uneasy. The author went on to explain that the place seemed to be a hotbed for paranormal activity, and they had made it their mission to discover why. They called it their "Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness", and intended to publish their findings and become world famous in the scientific community.

You flipped through page after page of detailed drawings and descriptions of strange and horrible creatures, and increasingly bizarre and cryptic journal entries. What the hell was all this?

There was no way you were leaving without this book.

You went home with the journal and a plate of shortbread, and proceeded to consume both that same night. You couldn't bring yourself to put it down. The more you read, a disturbing theme began to emerge: the Author, whom you were able to determine from a partially defaced self-portrait was male, seemed to believe he was a vessel for an entity he called his "Muse", who inspired him to build some kind of portal in order to aid his research. From then the entries became more and more paranoid and unhinged. The Author succeeded in building the portal, but something went wrong. Very wrong.

On one page, he wrote:

_**Something is not right. I am used to hearing the Muse's voice in my head on occasion. But now suddenly I hear whispers. The murmuring voices of beasts. The echoing howls of lost souls. This is not right at all. It is almost as though my Muse is contacting others. Ghouls from another world. The more I listen, the more I am convinced it is NOT my imagination. My head throbs. My right eye burns. I heard my Muse say something...** _

_**"The door is open"....** _

_**What have I done?** _

_**MY MUSE WAS A MONSTER.** _

You couldn't have stopped reading if you'd tried. The Author revealed that his so-called "Muse" was in fact a bizarre, one-eyed, triangle-shaped dream demon called Bill Cipher, and the portal he had tricked the Author into building was a gateway to the Shadow Realm, the dimension in which he was trapped. Horrified by what he'd done, the Author resolved to hide the three volumes of his journals, which contained the blueprints for his portal, and find a way to defeat his enemy.

And then his entries stopped. The next pages were completely blank.

Frantically you kept flipping forward, until you found more writing. Only it wasn't in the Author's elegant but hectic scrawl; it was in a child's hand. And the ink was much fresher.

Baffled, you began to read the new entries, which were written by a boy named Dipper Pines ( _Dipper?_ ), who found this very journal in the woods and became as obsessed with it as you were quickly becoming. Dipper proved to be a bright and hilarious twelve-year-old from California, who, along with his twin sister Mabel, was staying with his great-uncle, or "Grunkle" Stan, at his cabin in Gravity Falls over the summer. A cabin which also doubled as a roadside attraction known as the Mystery Shack.

_The Mystery Shack._

Nearly falling out of your bed, you ran to your desk and dug around in a drawer until you found a postcard from your cousin Melody. A postcard that read in large red letters, "GREETINGS FROM THE MYSTERY SHACK". On the back, she explained that her boyfriend Soos was the new owner of the Shack, and they both invited you to come and take the tour.

Until that moment, you had been willing to suspend your disbelief, but this was proof that it wasn't a joke or a hoax. It was real. The journal was real.

You continued to read Dipper's journal entries, in which he chronicled his own strange experiences in Gravity Falls. Some of them even involved Soos, who worked at the Shack as a handyman at the time. Their adventures culminated in the discovery that the Author's portal was in the basement of the Shack the entire time, and that Stan was trying to reactivate it. Because the Author was, in fact, his twin brother.

Thirty years ago, when Stanford Pines resolved to hide his journals, he decided to give the most dangerous one to his estranged brother Stanley. He invited him to his cabin and told him to take the journal to the farthest ends of the earth, but Stanley resented being summoned after years of separation, only to be sent away again. They fought, and in the altercation the portal was turned on and Stanford was sucked through. Distraught, Stan tried to get him back, but the portal had already shut down. He spent the next three decades trying to get his brother back.

At last he succeeded, and Stanford was pulled back through the portal. Instead of being grateful, though, Stanford was furious — with the portal active, he feared that his old nemesis Bill Cipher would be able to enter this dimension and wreak havoc. And his fears proved right.

Despite their efforts to contain the rift in the universe caused by the portal, Bill Cipher and his interdimensional henchmen came through, bringing about what was eventually referred to as "Weirdmageddon". (You couldn't make this up if you wanted to.) For a week, they lay waste to Gravity Falls and tortured its citizens using all manner of insane methods. But before they could spread their chaos to the rest of the world, the Pines family were able to defeat Bill Cipher and reverse the effects of Weirdmageddon — all thanks to Stanley, who had his own memory erased in order to destroy Bill once and for all.

Thankfully, Stan's memories returned in time, and the journal ended up back in the Author's hands. He concluded by saying he was going to spend the rest of his life reconnecting with his twin brother and fulfilling their dream of sailing around the world together. On the last page, he wrote that he had decided to throw all three of his journals into Gravity Falls's bottomless pit, a mysterious wormhole which either swallowed items thrown into it forever, spat them back out, or deposited them somewhere else, possibly even in another universe.

His final words were addressed to the person who found this journal, wherever it might end up:

_**Stay curious, stay weird, stay kind, and don't let anyone ever tell you you aren't smart or brave or worthy enough. If you have come on these adventures with us, then you are an honorary member of the Pines family, and your adventure starts today.** _

_**And if anyone ever gets in your way — well, we have an entire section on curses. Have at it.** _

_**For the last time, unless we meet in some distant world, this is** _

_**Stanford Pines, signing off.** _

  
For a long time you simply sat staring at the book in your hands, overwhelmed. You had no doubt in your mind that it was authentic. There were details about the Shack, about Soos, even about your own cousin Melody in its pages that no stranger could possibly know. But if the book was real, then that meant that everything it contained was real: ghosts, gnomes, aliens, unicorns, time travel. Nothing would ever be the same again.

When Melody invited you to come to stay with her, you didn't even have to think about it. Of course you had to go. Gravity Falls was calling you.

Even now, over a month later, you still haven't discovered all of the journal's secrets. You've managed to decode some of the ciphers, but a number of the others are incomprehensible. You know there are still many secrets contained within its yellowed, crumbling pages... and even more secrets in this strange little town.

Almost without thought, you reach out and place your hand on the journal's cover, over the large, six-fingered symbol of the Author.

You hope that, wherever Stan and Ford Pines are right now, they are safe, they are happy, and they are together.

Pulling yourself out of your reverie, you shower and get dressed in your most professional, librarian-esque attire. As you descend the creaky staircase, a delicious aroma drifts up from downstairs. Someone is cooking, and it smells like heaven. After getting lost twice (how big is this cabin, anyway?), you make your way into the kitchen, where Soos's grandmother seems to be preparing enough food to sustain a platoon. She smiles when she sees you enter.

" _Buenos días, chiquita,_ " she says as you come to join her.

" _Buenos días,_ Señora Ramirez," you reply, suppressing a smile at the nickname.

"No, no," she says, wagging a plump finger. "You call me Abuelita. Breakfast will be ready soon. I make chilaquiles."

Your eyes widen at the feast she is putting together, which seems to be composed of fresh homemade tortilla chips, a pot of red, simmering chili sauce, and practically a truckload of toppings. You manage to convince her to let you help, and she puts you to work slicing avocados. By the time Soos and Melody arrive, everything is ready. Abuelita forces the three of you to sit down while she serves you each a golden bounty of chips covered in salsa roja, avocado, radishes, cotija cheese, and cilantro, placing a perfect fried egg on top.

You take a bite and nearly swoon. Abuelita is officially your new favorite person.

You're so preoccupied with breakfast that it takes you a few moments to notice what Soos is wearing. He's dressed in a black suit and a Colonel Sanders-esque string tie, with a red fez perched atop his head — his own version of Stan Pines's "Mr. Mystery" get-up. Surprisingly, it suits him. Melody is dressed in an outfit similar to the one she wore last night, but with a different colored T-shirt.

After breakfast, Soos asks you if you're ready for the tour, and you agree whole-heartedly. You thank Abuelita and follow him out the front door and around the side of the house to the official entrance to the Mystery Shack. As Soos takes his place by the door, you stand at attention just below the porch.

He clears his throat and spreads his arms in an expansive gesture, clutching a cane topped with an eight-ball. You notice that he has also donned an eyepatch. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the—" He pauses. "I didn't prepare this speech for an audience of one. Is it okay if I just keep pretending there's a bunch of you?"

You laugh and nod. "Go for it."

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," he continues, "to the pride of Gravity Falls, the incomprehensible, the inexplicable, the world-famous, ever-evolving but always enthralling... Mystery Shack! Prepare to be amazed as you gaze upon that which defies nature, logic, and reality itself! Marvel as you behold strange and terrifying creatures! Stand in sheer awe at wonders you never thought possible!"

He points his cane at you. "You there, sir! I mean, uh, madam! Do you have the courage to step into the unknown?"

"Hell yes, I do," you reply enthusiastically.

"Please refrain from swearing while there are children present," he reprimands you gently.

You look around. "Uhhh..."

"And enter if you _daaare!_ " he suddenly shouts, pushing the door open and beckoning you inside. Startled into action, you hurry up the steps and duck through the entrance and into darkness.

As your eyes begin to adjust, you take in your surroundings. You're in a sort of cramped, dimly-lit exhibition hall, and surrounding you are some of the most ridiculous sights you've ever laid eyes on. Soos leads you around the room, introducing the exhibits one by one with admirable gusto. The Sascrotch, an unconvincing stuffed Bigfoot wearing a pair of white briefs. The Invisible Man, a bowler hat and a pair of sunglasses suspended from the ceiling on strings. The Cornicorn, which is literally a horse statue made of dried ears of corn. Your favorite item, though, has to be the Six-Packalope. That thing is messed up.

All in all, the "world-famous" Mystery Shack is easily the dumbest roadside attraction you've ever seen, but you can't help loving it; it's so gloriously tacky. But even more endearing than the poorly taxidermied creatures and lame puns is the tour guide himself. Soos is so genuinely into it, and holds such a reverence for each object. This is a man who has found his dream job, and he's undeniably good at it.

He concludes the tour in the gift shop, beside the statue of Stanley Pines. You applaud his performance and offer to pay him for his time, but he looks affronted by the suggestion.

"No way, dude," he tells you firmly. "You're Melody's cousin. That makes you family. I don't make family pay for tours."

You smile, touched. "Fair enough. But I'm getting a souvenir."

You watch as he pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and wipes a miniscule amount of dust from the statue. "So, this is the original Mr. Mystery," you observe. Of course, you know very well who it is, but Soos doesn't know that. For now, your instincts are to keep it to yourself. You're not sure how he would react if he were to find out just how much you know.

"Yup," he says. "That's Mr. Pines, the original owner of the Mystery Shack." He takes off his fez as a gesture of respect. "Truly a great man."

His solemn manner causes your heart to plummet. "He's not dead, is he?" you ask in alarm.

Soos laughs. "No, dude. He just retired to sail around the world and stuff with his brother. Although they’ve actually been back for a while. Mr. Pines even promised to do some tours, for old times' sake."

 _Back?_ Here in Gravity Falls? You weren’t expecting that. You're not sure what you would do if you met either of the Pines brothers in person. Probably embarrass yourself in a spectacular fashion. It's best not to think about it.

You mill around the gift shop, trying to decide on a souvenir, before settling on a Mr. Mystery bobblehead for your car. You also buy a yellow T-shirt that reads "I saw a cool stump at the Mystery Shack!", because why the hell not? You bring them to the counter, and Melody rings you up.

"So, how was the tour?" she asks with a grin.

"I can honestly say it was the most fun I've had in a long time," you say. "Soos is a natural."

Melody beams with pride. "Yeah, he's totally owning the whole 'Mr. Mystery' thing. It's weird; normally he's kind of shy. He couldn't care less about being the center of attention. But when he puts on the suit and fez, it's like, bam! Born showman."

"Maybe the fez is enchanted."

She laughs. "From all the magic old man hair still stuck in it."

Soon the Shack opens officially for tours, and you make yourself scarce while you wait for your interview at the library. For a while you sit with Abuelita in the living room and answer her nosy but harmless questions. She wants to know why someone as young and pretty as yourself is not married. When you tell her, she nods in understanding and proceeds to tell you about her late husband, who was evidently a piece of work. She concludes by calmly stating that he is likely burning in Hell now, and you resist the urge to hug her.

At last, it's time to leave. You walk out to your car and climb in, placing the Mr. Mystery bobblehead on your dashboard, where it sits staring at you with its manic grin.

"Wish me luck, Mr. Pines." 

As it turns out, you had absolutely nothing to worry about. After a short interview during which the library manager, who is also apparently the head librarian, goes over your resume and essentially asks you if you have a basic understanding of the alphabet and the Dewey decimal system, you are hired on the spot and told that you can start Monday. Something tells you that there wasn't exactly a wealth of applicants.

With that out of the way, you can finally relax and explore the library. It's a surprisingly nice one. The space is well utilized, and the bookshelves are arranged in a pleasing configuration. There are desks for studying, a row of computers, and even a beautiful old stone fireplace. It may not be as large or modern as the Salem Public Library, but it's certainly a great deal cozier.

You decide you might as well get a library card while you're here. After filling out the requisite paperwork, the librarian hands you your new card. You're about to tuck it into your wallet and leave when you spot a familiar figure sitting at one of the desks with his back partly toward you, surrounded by books and papers. It's the older gentleman from the diner. The one whose omelet you ruined when you smashed your glass on the counter like the Incredible Hulk.

The waitress called him "Doc", didn't she? He looks like a doctor. He appears to be in his late fifties to early sixties; it's somewhat hard to tell. His slightly long, unkempt hair is iron gray with a streak of silver running through it, and he's wearing a pair of very retro horn-rimmed glasses. His sideburns are unfashionably long, as well. He has a large nose, a strong jaw, and a dimpled chin, and his brow is furrowed with deep concentration. He sort of reminds you of an older version of Gregory Peck in _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Except instead of a seersucker suit, he's wearing another dorky turtleneck.

What could he be studying? You find yourself moving closer, almost without conscious thought. The books seem to cover a variety of topics, from biology to mythology to the history of the town. A scholar, clearly. Definitely not your typical small-town citizen.

As you stare at him rather openly, he suddenly heaves a sigh. "Yes, yes, Loretta, I know it's almost closing time," he says in his gruff voice, not looking up. "I'll be out of your hair in a moment."

You're not quite sure what to say to this. "I'm... not Loretta," you finally reply.

The man jerks his head up sharply, and his eyes widen behind his glasses. "Oh!" he exclaims as he sees you standing there. "It's you. Mighty Mouse."

You give an awkward chuckle. "That's me. Hello again."

"Thanks again for dinner last night," he says, beginning to gather up his books. "I don't go out to eat often, but Greasy's omelets are in a category by themselves." 

"Well, I figured I owed you a new one, after subjecting you to an impromptu baptism," you tell him.

The man throws back his head and laughs, and you experience an odd tingling sensation in the back of your neck. His craggy, stubbled visage is so strangely familiar to you. Where have you seen it before? You know you've never seen him before yesterday, but... he's like an old friend you've never met.

Suddenly the realization hits you, causing you to take a half step back. He looks just like the bobblehead on the dashboard of your car, the statue in the gift shop at the Mystery Shack. He looks like Stanley Pines. But he can't be. From what you've read about Stanley, he doesn't seem like the type to spend his time at the library, buried in books. Which can only mean...

The man clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "Is there something on my face?" he asks with a slightly wary smile.

Heart pounding in your ears, you shake your head quickly. "No," you say faintly.

You watch as he stands up, holding his stack of books to his chest. "In any event, I don't believe we've formally met." He sticks out his hand, and for the first time you count the fingers on it: six.

Six. Freaking. Fingers.

"I'm Stanford," he says. "Stanford Pines."

You might pass out.

Numbly, you introduce yourself, taking his hand and shaking it. "Pleased to meet you," you hear yourself say.

He continues, oblivious to your current state of shock. "I see you got yourself a library card," he observes, gesturing to the piece of plastic in your other hand, which you apparently never bothered to put away. "Does that mean you're here to stay?" 

Come on. Get it together. You can behave like a normal, functioning human being when you have to. "Yes," you manage to reply, after taking a deep breath. "I just got a job here. At this library, as a matter of fact." 

His expression brightens. "Congratulations. Well, I'm a regular, so I'm sure we'll see each other again." 

And just like that, he's leaving. Stanford Pines is leaving, and you're just going to stand there like an idiot and let him. Good call.

Desperately, you think of a reason to detain him. Your gaze lands on a piece of paper he left behind on the desk, and you snatch it up. "Wait!" you call, far too loudly for the setting of a library. "I think this is yours."

He pauses at the checkout counter, where the head librarian is scanning his books, and turns to face you. "Yes?"

You start to hand it to him, when you notice for the first time what is written on it. It's not in English. In fact, it doesn't seem to be in any language you've seen before. Instead, it's just a long string of random letters that don't appear to spell anything at all. Your breath quickens when you realize what it is.

"Is this a cipher?" you blurt.

He regards you with surprise. "Why, yes, it is," he says, taking the slip of paper from you and tucking it away. "Are you familiar with cryptography?" 

Under his sudden intense scrutiny, as well as the librarian's curious gaze, you feel yourself becoming self-conscious. "I mean... I know a few of the basic ones. The Caesar cipher, the Atbash, the A1Z26. That's about it." You neglect to tell him that his journal is the reason you began to study ciphers in the first place. Now is not exactly the time and place for that conversation.

He makes a small, impressed noise, gazing at you through his spectacles in appraisal. Retrieving a slim notebook from somewhere inside his coat, he takes a pen from the counter and begins scrawling on it.

The librarian clears her throat pointedly. "Closing time, Dr. Pines," she reminds him. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." 

"You don't need to remind me every time, Loretta." 

"You'd think, but..."

At length he finishes writing and tears the sheet from his notebook. Then, to your utter bewilderment, he holds it out to you. "See if you can solve that," he tells you with a smirk.

Almost mechanically, you reach out and take it from him, still in shock. As you meet his keen, piercing gaze, you find yourself unable to hold back a smile. "Challenge accepted," you reply.

He chuckles and bids you a good night, picking up his books and heading to the door. All you can do is stare at him as he leaves, waving a final farewell over his shoulder. And then, slowly, you look down at the paper in your hand. The message is short, and reads, simply:

**BJQQ ITSJ RNLMYD RTZXJ**

The Author of the journals, Stanford Pines, gave you a cipher to solve.

This is the best day of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to crack that code, if you want. :)
> 
> By the way, the “Psychic Sasquatch” book is a real thing. I wish I was making it up.


	3. It Really Acts Like a Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who read, commented, and left kudos! Here is the next chapter, and boy, was it fun to write.

It takes you a good thirty seconds to realize you're still standing in the middle of the library at closing time, staring at the door with your mouth open. When you finally bring yourself to move, you hurriedly exit the building, scanning the street for the figure who just preceded you. He is nowhere to be found. For a moment you wonder if you hallucinated the whole thing. But then you look down at the slip of paper in your hand, the proof of your encounter: the paper bearing the coded message, written in a hand you would know anywhere. A six-fingered hand.

That was the Author of the journals.

And you spilled iced tea all over his dinner.

With a groan, you make your way to your car and fling yourself down in the seat. You met Stanford Pines twice, and you didn't even know it. How could you have _not_ known? Soos told you that he and his brother had returned to Gravity Falls, after all. It was practically inevitable that you would run into one or the other of them eventually in this small town, especially since you're staying in their old house. In any case, you should have recognized him, considering all the sketches he drew of himself in the journal. The turtleneck alone was a dead giveaway.

You furrow your brow in thought. What is he doing here, anyway? Isn't he supposed to be traveling the world with Stanley? Why did they come back? And where are they staying?

Your phone buzzes in your purse. Forcing down your sudden alarm, you take it out and look at the screen. To your relief, it's only Melody. Letting out a breath, you press the 'accept' button and raise it to your ear.

"Hey, Mel."

" _Well?_ " she nearly yells in your ear, causing you to jump in your seat. " _Did you get the job?_ "

Oh, right. You were supposed to tell her how the interview went. "Yes," you answer with a laugh. "Sorry, yes. I got the job. I start on Monday."

" _Congratulations!_ " she exclaims. " _I mean, of course you did. You're ridiculously over-qualified. That's great, though. I'm sure you'll love it. I'm ordering pizza to celebrate. What do you want on it?_ "

"You know me," you say, smiling. "I have a highly sophisticated palate. Only the finest ingredients will appease me."

" _Lobster and white truffles with gold flakes it is, madame,_ " says Mel in her most supercilious waiter's tone. " _Would you like a foot massage with that?_ "

You laugh again. "Seriously, get whatever you want. I'm not picky."

" _Got it. See you soon, cuz._ "

You hang up and put your phone away. Then you pick up the paper with the coded message and stare at it, trying to remember which ciphers the Author — or rather, Dr. Pines — used in his journal. You find it surprising that he took the time to write it in the first place. Is he testing you, or simply amusing himself? At least he doesn't think you're a total dolt. You don't think, anyway.

Then again, compared to him, most people _are_ dolts.

Your stomach begins to grumble, and you decide to wait until you get home to try to solve the message, when you're free of distractions. Tucking the paper safely into your pocket, you start your car and pull out into the street.

Back at the Mystery Shack, Melody and Soos are in a celebratory mood. After a dinner of pizza and garlic bread, Melody breaks out a bottle of wine, and the three of you sit out on the back porch and chat about nothing in particular. It's a peaceful evening, and the only sounds aside from your voices are the chirping of frogs and the wind whispering through the trees. Soon the air becomes chilly, though, and you all agree by unspoken consensus to return inside.

You say your good nights and make your way up to the attic. As you walk through the house, you try to imagine what it might have looked like when Dr. Pines lived here. Was the whole place filled with experiments and scientific equipment and specimen jars, or was that sort of thing confined to his basement laboratory? And what became of that laboratory? Surely Soos knows. You suddenly want to ask him very badly, but doing so would reveal that you know about the basement already. You're still not sure how he would react to that.

In the safety and privacy of your room, you retrieve the journal from your bedside table. Then you dig your own spiral notebook out of your purse. Finally, you take out Dr. Pines's message, smooth out the wrinkles, and stare at it.

**BJQQ ITSJ RNLMYD RTZXJ**

On first inspection, it appears to be a fairly straightforward substitution cipher. Leafing through the journal to refresh your memory, you recall that the Author favored several of these ciphers, and used them interchangeably. You decide to start with the Atbash, or mirror cipher, which substitutes the first letter of the alphabet with the last letter, the second with the second to last, and so on. Grabbing a pencil, you flip through your notebook past the coded messages you've already solved, until you find an empty page.

You haven't even made it through the first word before you're forced to acknowledge that the resulting message is utter gibberish. _Okay,_ you think, _not the Atbash then._ Next you try the classic Caesar cipher, another substitution cipher in which the standard alphabet is rotated forward or backward by a set number of places — most commonly, three places to the right. Working from that presumption, you begin decoding the message in reverse, replacing each letter with the one three places to the left.

 _YGNN... No, that can't be right._ You sigh, tapping your pencil against the paper. Maybe...

You decide to stick with the Caesar cipher, but on a whim, you rotate the alphabet five places backward instead of three. Immediately you smile as a coherent message begins to emerge. By the time you decode the last letter, you're wearing a full-blown grin. For a long moment, you sit back and simply stare at the solved cipher. A laugh bursts unbidden from your lips.

**WELL DONE MIGHTY MOUSE**

You shake your head, still grinning. Well, you knew the Author had a sense of humor.

The next day is a Saturday, and you spend it in town, shopping for decorations and other items to make your attic room a little less bare. You purchase a rug, a small bookcase, some curtains, new bedclothes, a reading lamp, and an alarm clock. You also buy a hanging fern and a philodendron that look nearly impossible to kill, along with a set of string lights, because string lights make everything better. For a small town, it seems to have almost everything you're looking for.

As you explore the town, you find yourself searching among the strangers for a bespectacled figure in a trench coat. But no one you meet looks familiar, and after a while you give up. As impatient as you are to see Dr. Pines again and tell him you solved his code, you don't want to come off like a complete weirdo. Besides, he did say he was a regular at the library. You can wait a while longer.

On a whim, you step inside a thrift shop and take a quick look around. Almost instantly, you wish you hadn't. You can easily see yourself spending all of your money here. The place is crammed with all kinds of fascinating stuff: furniture, picture frames and mirrors, china sets, vintage clothing. You're about to check the price on a bust of Mozart that would look great on your dresser when something catches your eye — a bright teal, tufted, velvet wingback chair that appears to have been made in the sixties. Upon sitting down in it, it proves to be impossibly comfortable. You check the price tag and find it has been marked down several times. Apparently there is no one in Gravity Falls who appreciates its kitschy splendor.

You have to have this chair, you decide. Unfortunately, you know there's no way it will fit in your compact car. You pull out your phone and check the time; nearly five o'clock. Soos should have just finished up his last tour of the day. Feeling slightly silly, you call him and ask if he would be willing to bring his truck into town to pick up the chair. He agrees immediately, bless him, and you promise to repay him by making dinner.

You purchase the chair from the shop owner, a pleasant elderly man, and wait for Soos to arrive. To pass the time, you continue to browse the shop. As you explore the space, your eyes light on a door you didn't notice before. There's a sign taped to it with the written words "MORE INSIDE". Curious, you start to move toward it.

"Stop!"

You pause and whip your head around to stare at the shop owner, who has shot to his feet and stretched an arm out in warning. "I'm sorry?" you say in surprise.

"You shouldn't go in there, miss," he tells you in a calmer tone. "It's... not for customers."

You blink. "But the sign says—"

He swallows. "I know what the sign says," he says quietly.

Frowning, you turn back toward the door. For the first time, you notice the number '13' in tarnished brass on its face. Abruptly you remember an entry on one of the first pages in Dr. Pines's journal, a strange and ominous one about something he referred to as "cursed doors". Apparently during his time in Gravity Falls, before he was sucked into the portal, he witnessed several people go through mysterious doors scattered about the town, never to be seen again. If you recall correctly, his exact words were:

_**Any door with the number thirteen appears to be a portal to a different plane of existence. Or instant death. Haven't had the nerve to test it.** _

The sight of the door is like a bucket of ice water over your head. On the one hand, it's a good reminder that Gravity Falls is not quite the sleepy, harmless little town it seems to be on the surface, and that you should be on your guard.

On the other hand, _yikes_.

Fortunately, Soos pulls up in his beat-up old truck, and together you heave the armchair into the back. Thanking him profusely, you agree to meet him at the Shack, and then you stop at the local Tons grocery store and pick up some ingredients for dinner. You're aware that even though you found some great deals today, you've spent more money than you have in a long time. You'll be glad to start your new job on Monday; even though you won't have to worry about money for a good long while, you still don't want to make it a habit of spending too much.

All of Sunday is spent in fixing up your room. You start by cleaning the attic from rafters to baseboards; although Soos and Melody made a good effort at tidying it up, they're still essentially kids and don't know the first thing about a good deep cleaning. Once the attic is spotless, you begin arranging your new furniture. In addition, Soos invites you to rummage through the storage room for anything you might like to have. You find a small desk and chair for your laptop, a floor lamp, and an old painting of a tall wooden sailing ship crashing through a stormy sea. By the time you've finished, the attic looks a great deal cozier, and Melody and Soos concur. You even take a picture of the room with your phone and show it to Abuelita; as spry as she seems, you still don't want her to break her neck while trying to climb your staircase. She pronounces it " _muy lindo_ " and goes back to vacuuming.

It is with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation that you head to the library on Monday. It's been a long time since you started a new job, and you are not looking forward to tedious process of acclimating to a new work environment. Much of the day is spent learning your duties, becoming familiar with the rather antiquated computer system, getting your banking and tax information squared away, and working out your schedule. You will be working Mondays through Thursdays from nine A.M. to three P.M. Not a bad gig at all, if you say so yourself.

By the afternoon, you have mostly gotten the gist of what is expected of you — namely, checking out books and other media for members, re-shelving returned items, and reminding people to pay late fees or renew their library cards. You're sitting at the checkout desk, reviewing how to place holds on items for members, when without warning a stack of books is slammed onto the counter, making you jump.

You look up to see Stanford Pines, Ph.D. grinning broadly at you from the other side of the counter.

"Greetings," he says brightly. "Have you deciphered my cipher yet?"

For a moment you're too surprised to do anything but blink up at him. The fact is, you've been too absorbed in job orientation to even think about what you would do or say the next time you saw him. And you certainly weren't expecting to see him this soon. Did he really read _all_ of those books over the weekend? Upon reflection, you decide that yes. He absolutely read them all over the weekend.

You clear your throat to hide your sudden nervousness. "As a matter of fact, I did," you reply, reaching into your pocket and retrieving the solved message, which you stuffed into it this morning. You slide it across the counter to him, and he unfolds it. As you watch him read it and let out a chuckle, you feel an absurd warmth spreading in your chest. You managed to impress the Author. If you accomplish nothing else today, that will be enough.

"Very good," he says, pushing it back toward you. "Not an especially difficult cipher, but I congratulate you all the same... Mighty Mouse."

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up his books and move them to the pile of items to be checked back in. Good Lord, they're heavy. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Not a chance," he says, making you laugh. "That was quite an impressive feat of strength."

You snort good-humoredly, beginning to relax. "At least if the whole librarian thing doesn't work out, it's nice to know I can always find work in a traveling freak show," you say jokingly.

The words come out of your mouth before you realize how insensitive they must sound. You turn quickly to Dr. Pines, who is drumming all twelve of his fingers on the counter. "Now, now," he says with a stiff smile, his tone a little too airy, "let's not speak too disparagingly of freaks."

 _Shit, shit, shit._ This is why you don't talk to people. Years of conditioning have taught you that it's far better to keep your mouth shut, rather than risk saying something that will offend someone. And now, the minute you let your guard down, you call Stanford Pines a freak. If your goal was to make the Author of the journals hate you, mission accomplished.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Pines," you say, feeling your face grow warm and the tips of your ears burn. "I didn't mean to imply... That is, I wasn't talking about you at all. As a matter of fact, I think your hands are... Well, pretty cool, actually." Aaand you're making it worse. "Not that they're that noticeable. Or that they're something that _should_ be noticed, or... remarked upon. Oh, God. I'm going to shut up now."

To your relief, he merely chuckles. "Don't worry, no offense taken," he assures you. "And please, call me Ford. 'Dr. Pines' makes me feel like some doddering, arthritic professor in moth-eaten tweed."

You slowly let out a breath, grateful beyond measure that the man is able to joke about himself. "Ford," you repeat, testing it out. "Like Ford Prefect."

Oh, Lord. Why do you keep talking?

But the confused expression you expect to see on his face isn't there. Instead, he appears pleasantly surprised. "Precisely," he answers with a smile. "Except I didn't come from a planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse."

You blink, taken aback. "You've read _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_?" you ask.

He barks a laugh. "Read it? I listened to the radio program in 1979. That's how old I am."

Dr. Pines — or rather, Ford — honestly doesn't look that old to you; maybe sixty, at the most. It's clear that, aside from his slightly out of control hair and the way he seems to have a perpetual five o'clock shadow, he takes better care of himself than many people half his age. But you don't know him well enough to say any of that. Or rather, he doesn't know that _you_ know him that well.

Instead you go for another nerdy pop culture reference, because it seems to be the safest bet with him. "Actually, I'd say that makes you a pretty hoopy frood," you tell him.

Ford laughs again. "Well played." He taps his fingers on the counter for a moment before clearing his throat. "Well, I have some more books to hunt down for my research. I suppose I'll let you get back to work."

You're tempted to ask him about said research, but you don't want to appear too nosy. And, you admit reluctantly, you really should be working. Damn it.

You wish him good luck, and he moves off to peruse the shelves. As he walks away, you try not to follow him with your eyes. You're less than successful.

Ford. The Author told you to call him Ford.

Stop grinning, you look like an idiot.

With an effort, you go back to your work. You turn your attention to the books Ford returned and proceed to check them back into the system. As you scan the barcodes one by one, you can't help but raise your eyebrows at some of the titles. There are some decidedly weird books here, covering a wild range of topics: Greek mythology, quantum theory, E.S.P., astral projection, several books on cryptids. As a librarian, you've always believed that you can tell a lot about a person from the books they check out. If you didn't know better, you might conclude that Ford is batshit crazy.

Fortunately, you know better.

It takes you some time to put all of the items back in their proper places. By the time you return, Ford is already waiting at the counter with a new stack of books, ready to be checked out.

"That was quick," you observe, taking his library card and scanning it.

"Unfortunately, I can't stay long," he says. "Places to be."

 _Evasive,_ you think to yourself, hiding a smile. He's probably off to chase Bigfoot or something.

You scan his books and hand them back to him. "Enjoy the rest of your day," you tell him.

"And you, as well."

Before he leaves, he not-so-surreptitiously drops a folded piece of paper onto the counter. You wait until he's gone, and then you snatch it up and open it. As you read what's written on it, you find yourself grinning again.

**22-18 15-18-17-10 4-17-7 23-11-4-17-14-22 9-18-21 4-15-15 23-11-8 9-12-22-11**

This is going to be fun.

* * *

Ford's newest cipher takes considerably longer for you to solve than his first one, but eventually you crack it, and you have to roll your eyes. You should have known. Still, it's comforting to know that the Author of the journals, the man who survived thirty years trapped in the multiverse and helped defeat an interdimensional demon, is even dorkier than you are.

The next time you see Ford at the library, you present him with the solved cipher. Again, he commends you on your code-cracking skills. Before long, it becomes a ritual: every few days the man brings back his library books, which he seems to read with inhuman speed, checks out some new ones, and leaves you with an encoded message to decipher. Each message is progressively more complex and takes you more time to solve than the last, but it's worth it when you experience the sense of accomplishment that comes with it. Every time Ford congratulates you on your success, you have to fight the blush that threatens to consume your face. It's hard to admit it, even to yourself, but you've almost forgotten what praise feels like. For too long, you were punished and berated for something you did wrong, whether real or imagined. It feels almost foreign to be acknowledged for doing something right.

Three weeks pass, and Gravity Falls begins to feel less like a strange vacation spot and more like a permanent residence. You get to know your coworkers, who consist of the head librarian, Loretta Rosenbaum, and a few part time volunteers. You slowly become more comfortable at the Shack and around the people with whom you share it, and you contribute to the household expenses and prepare meals regularly to pull your weight. It isn't long before it feels like more of a home than your last address ever did.

And as for Stanford Pines? You wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but he has definitely become a comfortable part of your routine. And yet, you still can't bring yourself to come clean about the journal. For starters, a good opportunity to tell him never seems to come up. Half of the time, you're busy shelving books or helping someone find an item when he comes in, and you never get a chance to speak with him for more than a minute or two. More than once, you're tempted to pull up his information in the system and look up his address so that you can tell him everything, but that feels like an unforgivable breach of privacy. Not that reading his journal _wasn't_ a breach of privacy. But after all, he did give it up with the expectation that someone might find it. That makes it slightly less creepy. Going to his house or wherever he's currently staying, however, would just be too... stalker-ish.

You're also worried about how he might react to the news that you've had his journal this whole time. Surely he would wonder why you didn't tell him sooner. And how would you explain what you're doing in Gravity Falls in the first place? He would never believe it was simply a coincidence. Would he be glad his journal ended up in your hands, or would he regard you with suspicion, even distrust? It's so hard to say.

You still find yourself re-reading the journal almost every night, wondering if you'll ever see any of the bizarre, wonderful, and dangerous creatures described in its pages. Other than your encounter with the cursed door on your first weekend here, you haven't seen or experienced anything out of the ordinary. But the thing is... you want to. You _want_ to see an actual gnome, or a giant bat, or even — especially — a preposterous and adorable creature known as a plaidypus. The harder you try to ignore it, the louder the forest begins to call your name, inviting you to discover its secrets for yourself.

You know it's a bad idea. You know that there are some potentially horrific things lurking in those woods beyond the town. But you have to know.

Stuffing a backpack with some food, water, a folding knife, and Ford's journal, you grab some hiking clothes and sturdy boots one morning and throw them in your car. You decide to drive to the lake after work and explore one of the nearby trails you found on a map. You won't venture far at all, you tell yourself; and if something tries to mess with you, you are armed with the journal and with several dozen self-defense classes.

It's a gorgeous, sunny spring day, and as you get out of your car, you look across a glittering lake surrounded by sheer cliffs. A few small boats bob on the surface. In the distance, you see a little island shrouded in fog, a totem pole just barely visible. And beyond that, the faint outline of a rushing waterfall. It really is a breathtakingly beautiful place.

You hoist your backpack onto your shoulders and set off into the woods on one of the trails. As you walk, your boots crunch softly on pine needles. The light filtering through the evergreens is warm and inviting, and the air is filled with the chirping of birds. Tiny blue flowers peek through the undergrowth on either side of the trail, and once every so often a squirrel or chipmunk darts across the path.

You release a long, slow breath. You didn't realize until now how much you needed this. You used to go hiking and camping with your family all the time as a child. And then you grew up, and it just wasn't important anymore. Studying and preparing for your career became your first priority, and then, to your everlasting regret, your marriage. After a while, you forgot how happy you used to be when you were traipsing through the forest, surrounded by nature, free of the distractions of the outside world. It's almost like free therapy.

And if you happen to see a plaidypus, then that would just be an added bonus.

After a half hour or so of hiking, you stop and sit down on a fallen tree to rest and take a drink of water. As you do so, you come to the unsettling realization that the birdsong has ceased. The forest, which until now has been a soothing companion, suddenly feels oppressive. Like you're being watched.

You stifle a curse as you hear rustling in the underbrush, the pounding of feet growing closer. You stand up and instinctively drop into a defensive stance, adrenaline pumping. Hoping you're not about to come face-to-face with a Gremloblin or the Abominable Bro-Man, you look around at the surrounding trees, trying to decide if you should attempt to climb one.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Suddenly a figure comes crashing into the clearing and barrels straight into you. In your blind terror, your defense training kicks in automatically. Grabbing the attacker's arm, you go into an _irimi nage_ , one of the classic defensive throws in aikido. Stepping behind your opponent's back, you hook an arm around his neck and use your own weight to pull him off balance. Then, swiveling around, you push with your shoulder and throw him to the ground.

"Aaahh, son of a _bitch_ ," your attacker says in a half-surprised, half-pained, and entirely familiar voice.

Oh shit, it's Stanford Pines. 

Your hands fly to your mouth as you realize exactly what you've done. " _Ford!_ " you exclaim, kneeling on the ground beside his supine body. "Oh, my God, are you all right?" 

He coughs once, as if he's had the wind knocked out of him. Then he blinks up at you in bewilderment. "Mighty Mouse?" he says, his voice strained.

At that moment another man bursts into the clearing, breathing hard. He looks almost exactly like Ford, but he has more gray in his hair, broader shoulders, and a slight paunch. His twin brother Stanley.

He's winded and looks, frankly, awful. He sees you helping his brother to his feet and frowns. "What the— Who the hell are you?" he demands in what is quite possibly the most gravelly smoker's voice you've ever heard.

"No time to explain!" Ford tells you both urgently, grabbing your shoulder. "Just run!"

You snatch up your backpack from the ground, and the three of you start running through the woods. You have no idea what is happening or where you are going or what might be chasing you, but if it's got the Pines brothers running for their lives, it can't be anything good. You start to feel the ground shaking beneath your feet, and nearly fall over more than once. Whatever it is that's following you, it's _big_.

Abruptly Ford stops in his tracks at the foot of an especially large tree. You watch as he leaps up and grabs a branch, pulling hard on it. Before you can wonder how a man his age can be so agile, the forest floor opens up at your feet, forcing you to scramble backward to avoid falling in the widening hole. Peering past the edge, you see a spiral staircase leading underground. 

"This way!"

You follow Ford and Stanley down the stairs into some kind of bunker — the same bunker, you realize, that Ford and his assistant built more than thirty years ago. Once you're safely inside, he pulls a lever, and the hole in the ground closes itself. The quaking becomes stronger, sending you sprawling to the cold, damp floor. The tremors sound and feel like gigantic footsteps.

"What the hell is that?" you ask above the rumbling.

Ford answers you simply, his head craned upward and his gaze on the ceiling above: "Steve."

" _Steve!?_ "

Both Pines brothers shush you. Biting back a million questions, you fall silent, praying for the shaking to stop. You look between Ford and Stanley for some kind of explanation, but their faces are impassive. You're not sure how much time passes, but eventually the tremors grow more and more faint, and you can see them slowly relax.

When all is quiet, Ford heaves an annoyed sigh. "You just _had_ to see Steve for yourself, didn't you?" he grumbles at his brother, shaking his head. "Why am I not surprised that you managed to piss him off?" 

Stanley narrows his eyes through his glasses. "This isn't my fault," he fires back defensively, folding a pair of large arms over his chest. "He was pissed off because he thought I was _you!_ " 

"I did try to warn you that he ate my car," Ford reminds him.

"That was over thirty years ago! I didn't think he'd hold a grudge _this_ long."

Rather painfully, you clamber to your feet, attempting in vain to brush the dirt from your clothes. The movement seems to remind the brothers that they're not alone.

"All right, kid," says Stanley, gazing levelly at you, "who are you and what are you doing out here?"

Ford shoots him a disapproving glance. "You'll have to excuse my brother Stanley. He can be rather blunt." He introduces you to his brother. "This is the young lady I told you about," he explains. "The one who works at the library."

You're torn between contradicting him on his use of the word "young" and wanting to know why he was talking to his brother about you, when he speaks again. "Stan does raise a pertinent question. What _are_ you doing out here? It's not safe in these woods. Certainly not for a solitary hiker." He frowns as a new thought occurs to him. "And why are you taking all of this so well? Why haven't you asked why we're in an underground bunker, hiding from a tree giant?" 

You let out a sigh. There's really no point in hiding the truth any longer. It's time to come clean.

"I was..." You take a deep breath, and your next words come out in a rush. "I was hoping to see a plaidypus."

Ford stares at you, as if not sure he heard you correctly. Slowly, he cocks his head to the side. "How do you... know about those?" he asks, sounding wary.

You gaze up into his intelligent brown eyes, which suddenly hold so much suspicion. You can't say you blame him. All the same, you really wish he wouldn't look at you like that.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I meant to tell you earlier, but I just... didn't know how." You swallow hard. "I know who you are. I found one of your journals." 

You watch as Ford's face goes curiously blank.

And then he blurts, "You _what?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million meaningless Internet points to whoever decodes the message in this chapter. :)


	4. Pines! Pines! Pines!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for all the views, comments, and kudos. This chapter was insanely fun to write. I hope you enjoy it.

As you slide your backpack from your shoulders, you can feel the eyes of both Pines brothers on you. Unzipping the largest compartment, you pull out the battered, torn journal and hold it out to Ford. You hear a sharp intake of breath. And then, slowly, he reaches out and takes it from your grasp.

"Unbelievable," he whispers.

Clutching the book in both hands, he begins to pace back and forth in the cramped bunker, muttering to himself. Stan, for his part, looks equal parts irritated and amused. With a sigh, he settles himself on a moldy cot in the corner as if preparing himself for a long wait.

For the first time, you take in your surroundings. The bunker is an oblong half-cylinder, like a Quonset hut — except, obviously, underground. Against one wall is a locker labeled "WEAPONS", and along another are shelves of supplies, enough to last at least sixty years. Dust and cobwebs blanket every visible surface. Somewhere beyond this room, you know, there's a subterranean laboratory and at least one eldritch horror being held in suspended animation, but you have no desire to go looking for either at the moment.

Ford finally stops pacing and turns his attention to you. "All right," he says. "Let's start from the top. Who exactly _are_ you?"

You suppress a sigh. "I assure you, I'm no one of any particular importance," you tell him. "Just a humble librarian from Salem."

"And how did you end up with this?" he asks, holding up the journal.

Now that the adrenaline rush from your mad dash through the forest has worn off, you find yourself feeling exhausted. Taking a seat on the cot beside Stan, you clasp your hands in your lap. "An acquaintance of mine from the Parks Department roped me into making something for their annual bake-off," you explain. "While I was dropping it off, I noticed they were also selling a bunch of confiscated items. I saw this book lying there, looking all old and mysterious, and being the nerd I am, I couldn't _not_ buy it." You spread your hands in a futile gesture. "But once I started reading it, I couldn't stop. I thought it was a joke or a prank at first, but... I couldn't get it out of my head." 

"The Parks Department in Salem," Ford repeats, frowning. "How in the multiverse did it get there, of all places?"

"There's a note taped to the inside cover," you say. "Apparently some park rangers found it in the middle of the woods. But it freaked them out so much that they decided to get rid of it."

While Ford opens the book and inspects the note in question, Stan speaks up. "So, you found the journal. And then you came all the way here to find the brainiac who wrote it?"

"Not exactly," you reply. "I was invited here by my cousin and her boyfriend, who just happens to be the current owner and proprietor of the Mystery Shack." 

Both brothers look at you sharply. "No kidding? Melody is your cousin?" says Stan in surprise. "Nice girl. Weird taste in guys, but nice." He blinks. "Wait. You're staying at the Shack?" 

You nod. "For about three weeks now." 

He shakes his head. "Huh," he says, smiling for the first time. "Small world. You take the tour yet?" 

You return his smile. "The Six-Packalope was my favorite." 

"Please don't encourage him," mutters Ford. 

"Mr. Pines, I can't tell you what an honor it is to meet you," you continue, turning to Stan. "You kind of saved the world." 

Even in the dim light of the bunker, you can make out the sudden red tint in Stan's cheeks. "So they tell me," he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "My memory is still a little fuzzy on that subject. 'Course, that doesn't stop me from taking full credit."

At this Ford's expression becomes somber. The reminder that Stan was willing to sacrifice himself in order to save the town and his family hits you like a sack of cement to the stomach. And Ford was powerless to do a single thing about it. You can't even begin to imagine how he must have felt, watching his own twin's memories being erased, after just being reunited after forty years apart. Both brothers have gone through absolute hell to get where they are.

Ford removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his noise. "This is all very unusual," he remarks, seemingly to himself.

There's the understatement of the century. "You're telling me," you say, folding your arms over your chest. "I find a journal chronicling paranormal activity in a small town in eastern Oregon, and then I get an invitation to the same town, to stay in the house that once belonged to the author. Pretty strange coincidence, right?" 

But Ford is shaking his head. "I don't think it's a coincidence at all," he replies, returning his glasses to his face. "I was right. The magnet is getting stronger." 

"The... what?" you ask, briefly thrown.

He turns to you. "If you've read my journal, you'll recall my theory of why so many anomalies are drawn to Gravity Falls." 

You frown as you try to remember what he called it. "The weirdness magnet?" 

"The very same." He waves the book in his hands. "I dropped these journals into the Bottomless Pit, knowing they could end up anywhere — even in another dimension. The fact that, despite all odds, one of them has somehow found its way back here can only mean that the town's magnetic weirdness field is getting stronger. It could also explain why Stan and I just happened to be here at the same time as your arrival. Something drew us all here. I would be tempted to say it's impossible, but life has taught me that nothing is beyond the realm of possibility."

You ponder the implication of his words. If his theory is correct, and something drew you to Gravity Falls — some mysterious force that attracts oddities — then that seems to imply that you yourself are an oddity of sorts. You're not sure whether you should be flattered or insulted.

"What does it mean?" you can't help asking.

"I don't know," Ford says pensively, "but I'm going to find out." 

You look at him, and the sight of the Author holding his journal is an unexpectedly powerful one. It just feels... right.

Rising from the cot, you approach him hesitantly. "Do you..." You force yourself to say the words. "Do you want your journal back?" 

Ford turns his contemplative gaze on you. "No," he says after a long moment. "For whatever reason, you were meant to find it. It belongs to you now."

He holds the journal out to you, and you take it gratefully. "I'll take good care of it," you assure him.

"I have no doubt of it." He clears his throat. "You've really read... _all_ of it?" he asks with a bashfulness that's oddly endearing.

You suppress a smile. "Multiple times." 

He passes a hand over his face. "Oy," he mutters.

After an awkward pause, he seems to draw himself up. "I believe it's safe to return to the surface," he says. "I'll check to make certain." 

With a groan, Stan hauls his heavily-built frame to his feet and stretches, his back popping audibly. "I'm getting too old for this," he grumbles.

"We're the same age, you knucklehead," Ford tells him absently, making you smile. Clapping him on the shoulder, he moves past him in the small space and activates the switch set in the wall. There's a low rumbling sound, and the shadows in the stairwell gradually recede as the hole in the ground opens itself up. You watch as Ford climbs the spiral staircase nimbly, two steps at a time. It's clear that even though they're twins, Ford has taken better care of himself over the years than Stan has.

After a moment, he calls down to you: "The coast is clear. Watch your step now." 

Returning the journal to your backpack and hoisting it onto your shoulder, you ascend at a more reasonable pace, Stan following at your heels. Once you've reached the surface, Ford again shimmies up the tree and pulls down on the lowest branch. The stairwell disappears seamlessly into the forest floor, leaving no evidence it was ever there.

He drops to the ground, wincing slightly and rubbing his left shoulder. "It seems my nickname for you was more appropriate than I thought," he says with a tight smile.

Oh, God. In all the excitement, you forgot about your knee-jerk reaction when he ran into you in the forest. This man literally helped save the world from a psychotic triangle, but since you've met him, you've managed to ruin his dinner, call attention to his polydactyly, fail to tell him about the journal, and mistake him for an attacker.

And now you've broken him. You broke the Author.

"I'm so sorry about that," you say, thoroughly mortified. "Are you all right? Do... Do I need to take you to the hospital?" 

"Hmm?" He waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, no, I hardly think that's necessary."

"But you might have torn a ligament, or even your rotator cuff," you protest.

To your surprise, he laughs in amusement. "Don't worry, I've injured this shoulder before. This feels like nothing more than a simple hyperextension of the teres major and minor muscles."

"Are you sure?"

Ford's smile is distinctly smug. "It's not the first time I've been thrown to the ground, and it won't be the last."

Before you can process that information, Stan whistles. " _That_ was why Sixer was on his back when I found you?" He chuckles. "Not bad, kid. Were you on your high school wrestling team or something?" 

You feel your face burn with embarrassment. "I may have taken a few aikido classes for self-defense," you mumble, looking at your feet.

As you do so, you do a double-take. For the first time, you realize that the three of you are standing in an enormous footprint, larger than the area taken up by your car. You allow your gaze to drift further, following more massive footprints leading off into the forest. You shake your head, hardly able to believe what you're seeing. Everything feels so surreal.

"So that... thing out there," you say, gesturing to the footprint. "Steve. The... tree giant. How big is it, exactly?" 

"I've never seen the entire creature at once," admits Ford, rubbing his stubbled chin, "but judging by the size of its hands and feet, I'd say approximately the size of a sequoia." 

A sequoia. "Good Lord," you mutter, raising your hand to your forehead.

"Hey, kid, do you need to sit down?" Stan asks you.

You shake your head. "No, I just... I just don't know where to start. I have so many questions." 

"Yes, I imagine you do," says Ford. "I'll do my best to answer them. Let's walk and talk, shall we? Which direction did you come from?"

You head off through the forest together in the direction of the lake, where you parked your car. "First of all," you say as you walk, stepping over roots and fallen branches, "how is it that the entire world doesn't know about Gravity Falls? If it really is a hotbed of weird shit, why isn't there more interest in it? Why aren't people talking about it, like Area 51 or the Bermuda Triangle?" 

"An excellent question," Ford replies. "One I've been asking myself for years. The only conclusion I've been able to come up with is deep-seated denial." He looks over at you. "May I assume you've read Douglas Adams's entire _Hitchhiker's Guide_ series?" 

You feel one corner of your lips twitch in a wry smile. "I'm a librarian. Reading is kind of our thing." 

He nods, as if he suspected as much. "Then you'll be familiar with the phenomenon he referred to as an 'S.E.P. field'." 

Your smile widens. "Somebody Else's Problem." 

"Yes!" Ford looks pleased. "The basic idea is that people don't see anything they don't want to see, or can't easily explain. They don't want to believe in the impossible—" 

"So they choose not to," you finish, beginning to realize the meaning behind his words.

"Precisely. That seems to be the case with this town. Even the people who live here choose to pretend everything is perfectly normal." He huffs a soft sigh of what sounds like resignation. "There was a time when my life's mission was to share the truth about Gravity Falls with the world. I realize now that... perhaps the world's just not ready for this _much_ weird." 

You frown as a thought occurs to you; one that has been on your mind since you first met him. "So what are you doing here now? From what you wrote in your journal, it sounded like you two were going to investigate something going on in the Arctic Ocean." 

At this the man brightens. "Indeed we did. As a matter of fact, we uncovered quite a number of anomalies in our travels. I detected some especially strange readings off the coast of Greenland. Wouldn't you know it, it turned out to be a giant interdimensional cephalopod that had torn a hole in spacetime." 

"I called it the Galacti-Kraken," says Stan, puffing out his chest with pride. Of course he did. 

"Stanley and I managed to send it back to its own dimension and seal the breach," continues Ford, "but unfortunately the Stan O' War II was damaged in the battle. Until its repairs are completed, I'm afraid we're landlocked." 

"On the plus side, summer isn't too far away," adds Stan. "Our grandniece and nephew will be coming to stay with us again." 

"Dipper and Mabel are coming here?" you ask in surprise.

Ford stops briefly in his tracks. "That's right, of course you know all about Dipper and Mabel," he says, shaking his head as he resumes walking. "Yes, they'll be here in June. I can't wait to see them."

You smile at the genuine affection you hear in his voice. You honestly can't blame him; the more you've read and reread Dipper's entries in the journal, which include surprisingly sophisticated sketches and hilarious observations about the town, and which are often interrupted by Mabel's own colorful drawings and sheer glorious silliness, the more you have come to admire both of them.

"They sound like amazing kids," you say aloud. 

"They're the best kids in the world," says Stan, and his voice sounds even hoarser than usual. "I couldn't be more proud of them."

The three of you are silent for a moment.

Ford clears his throat, tactfully changing the subject. "I hope you'll excuse my curiosity, but it occurs to me that although you know almost all there is to know about our family, we know next to nothing about you." 

"Right," you say, nodding. You exhale slowly. "Well, there's not much to tell. I've lived in Oregon my whole life. I wasn't very popular in school, but I had a few friends. I spent most of those years with my head in a book. I went to college at the University of Oregon, got my undergraduate degree with a major in English literature, then a master's in Library Science. And I've been a librarian ever since." 

"Oh, great, another poindexter," teases Stan good-naturedly.

Ignoring his brother, Ford asks, "What made you decide to leave Salem? Apart from your cousin's invitation, that is."

You choose your next words carefully. "Without going into specifics, I recently went through a bad divorce and a settlement. The whole thing was a legal nightmare. I decided I couldn't stay there anymore. When Melody invited me to come here, I jumped at the chance for a fresh start." You glance up to find Ford looking at you intently. "But I never expected to find you two here. I almost can't believe all of this is real." 

"Believe it, sister," says Stan. "Now let's get the hell out of these woods. I'm starving." 

An idea begins to form in your head, and somehow you manage to work up the nerve to voice it. "Can I... Can I take you both out to dinner?" you offer. "My treat." 

Instantly Ford begins to protest. "Oh, that's really not necessary—" 

Stan cuts him off. "Wow, really? Thanks, kid!" 

He picks up his pace, but his brother hangs back, appearing uncomfortable. He reaches up and rubs the back of his head, causing his fluffy gray hair to become even more disheveled. "I wouldn't want us to be an imposition," he says quietly.

You wonder at the man's reluctance, until you recall that he did spend the last three decades wandering the multiverse alone. For that matter, most of his young adulthood was spent on his own, whether devoting himself to his studies or exploring the mysteries of Gravity Falls. It wasn't until he resolved to build the portal that he was forced to acknowledge that he needed help. It's hardly surprising that he now equates accepting an act of kindness as being "an imposition". He's spent nearly his entire life relying on no one but himself.

"You are not an imposition, Stanford Pines," you tell him firmly. "On the contrary, it's the least I can do. Meeting you and your brother has been a dream come true for me. When am I going to get this opportunity again? Besides," you add, pretending not to notice the subtle blush of his cheeks, "you need to put some ice on that shoulder."

Ford looks embarrassed but grateful. "I... Thank you," he replies sincerely.

The light is beginning to fade when you finally make it back to the unpaved area where you left your car. You unlock the doors, and Stan slides into the back, allowing Ford to take the passenger seat. You cringe inwardly when you watch Ford buckle his seatbelt with some difficulty, but before you can apologize again for his shoulder, Stan suddenly bursts out laughing. You turn around in your seat to see what's so damned funny, and then grin as you realize he's spotted the bobblehead on your dashboard.

After a brief consultation with the twins, you decide that none of you are appropriately dressed for either of the two upscale restaurants in Gravity Falls; and besides, both would require reservations. Instead, at their direction, you drive to a little Mexican restaurant on the edge of the town's commercial area appropriately named Hermanos Brothers. As you pull into the parking lot and get out, you see that the entire roof of the building is actually a giant sombrero. Subtle.

Immediately upon entering, it's obvious that this is not exactly a Michelin star establishment. But both Pines brothers appear perfectly content as they wedge themselves into a ripped vinyl booth, leaving the other side for you. You request a bag of ice, and Ford takes it gratefully and removes his coat to apply it to his shoulder. You agree to split a large order of fajitas with him, while Stan, to your surprise, orders a taco salad. While you wait for your food, you ask them about their experiences in the Arctic.

They're just like you imagined they would be: Stan is loud and brash and a big goofball, while Ford is quieter and more reserved, until you get him talking about the strange creatures they met in their time at sea. In the glow of the ridiculous taco-shaped wall sconces, his face lights up as he describes encounters with sirens, selkies, and something the people of Iceland call the Skeljaskrímsli, or "shell monster". Every so often, Stan interrupts with a corny joke, but Ford seems unbothered by his brother's antics. Quite the opposite, in fact; if anything, he seems happy simply to be in his company.

You find yourself so engrossed in their stories, you fail to notice how much time has passed. Before you know it, all of the food has been polished off and the sky has grown completely dark. You pay the bill, ignoring the brothers' protests, and offer to drop them off at their car. However, Stan informs you that they went into the woods on foot. He takes the passenger seat this time and gives you directions to their current place of residence. As you drive, you glance in your rear view mirror and catch Ford in the back seat, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Apparently old habits die hard.

At the edge of town, Stan tells you to turn and follow a long, twisting paved driveway through the forest. The elevation continues to climb, until the trees abruptly give way to a large hill overlooking the valley in which the town is situated. At the center of the hill is an enormous three-story mansion surrounded by a high brick wall. Past its wrought-iron gates, you can see a courtyard with a fountain at its center.

Mouth open in shock, you slow to a halt outside the gates, where you can now make out the initials "N.W.", as well as the words "Northwest Manor". This is the ancestral home, you realize, of the Northwest family, about whom Dipper wrote in his portion of the journal.

"You're staying _here?"_ you blurt out before you can stop yourself. "With the Northwests?"

Stan chuckles. "Right. Like they'd ever allow that. They went bankrupt and lost this place after some especially bad business dealings. Their digs are considerably less swanky these days."

"Yes," Ford adds, "the manor belongs to my old research assistant, Fiddleford — Well, you know who he is. He bought the place after selling some of his invention patents to the government. He's kindly allowing us to stay here while he's with his family in D.C., doing some work for the Pentagon." He stops himself. "Whoops. Probably shouldn't have said that."

So McGucket took his old partner's advice and got rich off his inventions, you think. And he reunited with his estranged family. Good for him. 

You lean forward over the steering wheel, staring up at the imposing old manor. "Isn't this place... haunted?" you ask.

"No, no," Ford replies with an air of blithe indifference. "Not anymore, anyway. My grandnephew exorcized the place, and Fiddleford returned all the stolen Native American artifacts to their original tribes, just to be safe." 

"Oh. Good." You're not sure what else to say to that.

Stan reaches out and taps his bobblehead counterpart on the dashboard, making it jiggle wildly. "Well, thanks for the ride," he says. "And for dinner. You going to be at the Shack on Saturday?"

"Yes," you say slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"Good. I'll be giving a tour first thing in the morning. I'd better see you there."

You can't hold back your grin at hearing this. "Like I'd turn down a tour from Mr. Mystery himself," you tell him.

He laughs. "That's what I like to hear. See you then, kid."

He climbs out of the car and makes his way to the gates, where he punches a code into the call box. The gates swing open, and with a wave, he steps inside.

Ford lingers in the back seat, his hand resting on the door handle. "That's two meals I owe you now," he says somewhat sheepishly.

You lock eyes with him in the rear mirror and shake your head adamantly. "Don't be ridiculous. It was my pleasure." 

Even in the dark, you can see his slight, crooked smile. "Well," he says. "Thank you again for your hospitality." 

You return his smile. "You're welcome, Ford." 

He opens the door and gets out. "Good night." 

"Good night."

As you watch him begin to walk away, you try to identify what you're feeling, and you realize it's disappointment. As utterly insane as this day has been, you wish it could have lasted a bit longer. The Pines brothers are two of the strangest, most larger-than-life people you have ever met, and you could have easily spent all night listening to their tales of swashbuckling adventure.

With a sigh, you reluctantly shift your car into reverse. You're about to pull away, when you see Ford jogging back to your car. He knocks on your window with a six-fingered hand, and you roll it down.

He holds out a piece of paper torn from his ever-present notebook. "Don't come back until you've solved it," he says, his gruff tone betrayed by the glint in his eye.

"Another cipher?" you ask with a smile, taking it from his fingers.

He actually _winks_. "Better get to work, Mighty Mouse."

You snort and shake your head to yourself as he turns away, his long coat swinging dramatically. What a dweeb.

Once he's gone, you flick on the overhead dome light and unfold the torn page. It reads simply:

**TWC DHSXR SGY XQQL MM ESY S VQIR SBTQ DFSMPGVBL**

"Oh, it is _on_ , Stanford Pines," you whisper with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of selkies is a nod to the incredible story "Fisherman's Knot" by scribefindegil. If you haven't read it, what are you doing with your life?
> 
> Again, feel free to try your hand at the cipher. I'll even give you a hint: It's a Vigenère cipher. With that knowledge, it should be a cinch to crack.
> 
> WINK.


	5. The Source of All Lumberjacks' Jackets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thanks so much for all the comments and kudos. You guys are awesome.
> 
> So... I'm insanely proud of this chapter. I hope you like it.

When you return to the Mystery Shack, you try to be as quiet as possible. Although it's not late, you know that Abuelita usually retires rather early, and you don't want to wake her. Before you can open the front door, however, the knob is yanked out of your hand, key still in the lock, and Melody is standing in the doorway. She does not look happy.

"Oh, my God, where have you been?" she exclaims, much too loudly, in your opinion. "You should have told me you weren't coming home for dinner! I've been worried, dude! I thought you'd been in an accident, or your walking toiletbrush ex showed up and tried to kidnap you or something!"

You wince as you realize you should have told her you were going to be late. In your defense, you were a bit distracted by the ordeal of being chased through the forest by a tree giant. "I'm so sorry," you say in a more hushed voice, hoping she'll follow suit. "I decided to explore the trails around the lake after work, and I ran into the Pines brothers. You know, Stanley and Stanford?"

"Y-Yeah," Melody says uncertainly, her brow furrowed. "They used to own this place."

"Right." You're not sure how much she knows about Stan and Ford, or Gravity Falls, or what Soos has told her, so you keep your explanation deliberately vague. "Well, Stanford is a regular at the library, but I'd never met his brother before. We got to talking, and I told them I was staying here at the Shack. The next thing I knew, I was offering to take them out to dinner. It was all sort of spur-of-the-moment. But I should have told you what was going on. I'm really sorry, Mel."

As she listens, you can see her frown slowly fade, and her brow unknits itself. "I mean, I guess it's cool," she says, relaxing slightly. "You are a grown adult. I know I'm not your mom or whatever, but... We're still family. And family looks out for each other."

Her simple, earnest words cause something to tighten in your chest. "That means a lot to me," you tell her. "The next time something like that comes up, I promise I'll check in, okay?"

"Good." She smiles, to your relief. "Now get in here and play Mario Kart with Soos and me."

"I call Yoshi," you say, following her inside.

"What? No way, Yoshi's mine!"

Predictably, your video game session gradually turns into a marathon, and it's well past midnight when you finally agree to turn in. After washing your face and brushing your teeth, you say your good nights and make your way up to the attic. Throwing off your dirty, wrinkled clothes, you change into some comfortable pajamas. You can't go to bed just yet, though.

Switching on the lamp on your nightstand, you sit down cross-legged on your bed and take out the latest cipher Stanford Pines gave you. For a moment, you simply stare at it. At first glance, it looks like the other alphabet substitution ciphers he has used in the past.

**TWC DHSXR SGY XQQL MM ESY S VQIR SBTQ DFSMPGVBL**

Opening the drawer of the nightstand, you retrieve your notebook and flip forward to a blank page. Then you begin the slow, laborious process of going through all of the ciphers you know, to determine if any of them are the correct one. But none of them seem to work. You try the Caesar cipher first, using the standard three-places-to-the-left decryption method. No luck. You try five places over, then two, then every other letter of the alphabet just to be safe. It still gets you nowhere.

Muttering under your breath, you try the Atbash cipher next. But that doesn't work, either. Neither does a combination of the two. _What the hell, Ford?_ you think, beginning to feel a dull ache behind your temples. This is proving to be much more difficult to crack than any of his previous messages. For a brief moment, you wonder if he's finally given you a cipher that is beyond your intellect to solve. But you can't give up.

Crossing the little attic room to your desk, you boot up your laptop and connect to the Internet. You enter "types of ciphers" into the search engine, and swear under your breath when you see all of the results. This is going to take a while.

Bringing your notebook over to the desk, you find an alphabetical list of ciphers and go through each, one by one: the Baconian cipher, the Cadenus, the Digrafid. By the time you get to the _V_ s, your eyes feel like they're burning out of your skull. At last, though, you come upon something called the Vigenère cipher. It was invented in 1553, and was apparently so difficult for others to crack that it was nicknamed ' _le chiffre indéchiffrable_ ', or 'the indecipherable cipher'. That certainly sounds promising.

The Vigenère cipher works using a table, or _tabula recta_ , in which the alphabet is written out twenty-six times, with each row shifted one place to the left of the row above it; the first row starting with A, the second with B and ending with A, and so on. To decrypt the message, a keyword is needed. Using each letter of the keyword in a repeating pattern, you apply it to each letter of the encoded text until the message is solved.

That's all well and good, you think. But even assuming this _is_ a Vigenère cipher, how are you supposed to solve it without the keyword? But as soon as the thought enters your head, you realize you already _have_ the keyword.

With the aid of a _tabula recta_ you find on the Internet, you begin decoding the message using the keyword 'MIGHTYMOUSE'. Your pulse increases as, for the first time, a word emerges from the nonsensical jumble of letters — T becomes H, W becomes O, and C becomes W.

**HOW**

You somehow manage to suppress a shout of triumph. Working more quickly, you continue decoding the message, starting at the beginning of the keyword when you get to the last letter. By the time you've reached the final word, you have to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the squeal of excitement that escapes your lips.

**HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A REAL LIVE PLAIDYPUS**

"Shut up," you whisper through your fingers.

Wait, you think. For real? Is Stanford Pines really offering to take you to see a plaidypus? But... that's insane. Why would he do that? Giving you little coded messages to crack every now and then is one thing. Doesn't he have better things to do than drag you through the woods, looking for the most adorably absurd creature described in his journal?

More than likely, he's just being polite. A thank you for taking him and his brother to dinner. But even that was mostly a _mea culpa_ for throwing him on the ground like you were Newton testing the earth's gravitational force. He really doesn't owe you anything, and you made that clear to him.

What did he say after giving you the cipher? "Don't come back until you've solved it." That would seem to imply that he wants you to come back.

...Right?

You give a jaw-popping yawn. It's far too late to try to solve the mystery that is Stanford Pines, you decide. Closing your laptop, you crawl into bed and switch off the lamp. As tired as you are, though, you can't seem to quiet your mind. Thoughts of underground bunkers, giants the size of sequoias, and six-fingered men in tattered trench coats chase each other through your head, until finally the events of the day take their toll, and you succumb to a deep, dreamless slumber.

It isn't until nearly noon that you are able to haul yourself out of bed and down the stairs. Thankfully, today is Friday, and you have the day off from work. The kitchen still smells of _atole_ , a thick porridge-like drink made with corn flour and seasoned with cinnamon and vanilla, that Abuelita often makes for breakfast. Melody and Soos are nowhere in sight, but you know that Soos is no doubt giving a tour, while Melody runs the cash register in the gift shop. Too tired to prepare anything elaborate, you pour yourself a bowl of cereal and shovel it into your mouth as you stare out the kitchen window.

You really couldn't ask for a more perfect day. Dappled sunlight filters through the trees, and robins and starlings flitter about, lighting here and there to peck at the ground. That scruffy goat that likes to hang around the Shack is munching placidly on some bushes, and somewhere you can hear the staccato hammering of a woodpecker.

Several cars are parked in the visitors' lot, and as you watch, an SUV pulls in alongside them, raising a cloud of dust. A younger couple in their late twenties or early thirties gets out and makes their way to the Shack's entrance, walking hand in hand. One of the pair makes a joke, causing the other to laugh.

The sight of the couple sends a sharp pang straight to your heart, and it isn't the first time you've felt it. Watching Soos and Melody last night, snuggling contentedly on the sofa while they took turns annihilating each other at Mario Kart, made something inside you want to curl up and die. It's been over a year since you broke free of your ex, and although you'd prefer a life of solitude to the utter nightmare you left behind, you can't deny that you're lonely. But as much as you miss companionship, the idea of allowing yourself to be in another relationship — allowing yourself to be vulnerable — is one that fills you with terror. How can you trust your judgment ever again? How do you know that the next person who seems nice won't turn out to be another monster?

Screw this. It's time to find a plaidypus.

After showering and changing, you find your backpack and hiking boots, still caked in mud from yesterday. On a whim, you tear your latest solved cipher from your notebook and stuff it into a pocket. Carrying your boots in one hand, you find Melody in the gift shop and tell her you're going out. You're not sure how long you'll be gone, but you promise you'll be back by dinner.

"You'd better be," she tells you as you walk out the door. "Abuelita said she's going to show us how to make chile rellenos!" Well, that settles it.

You step out onto the creaky porch and sit down on the steps to pull on your boots. Dust motes drift lazily through the sunbeams as you pause to breathe in the scent of pine needles and... goat?

"Hi, Gompers," you murmur, reaching down and gently discouraging the animal from chewing on your pant leg.

You walk to your car and climb in, tossing your backpack onto the seat beside you. For a moment you sit motionless, staring out the window and wondering if this is a good idea. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't even consider going into the woods with a complete stranger, and if anyone you knew proposed doing such a thing, you would grab them by the shoulders and shake them until they saw sense. But these aren't normal circumstances, and Stanford Pines isn't exactly a stranger. Thanks to his journal, you know almost everything about him. You know that he can be rather detached and analytical, that he has a ravenous appetite for knowledge, and that he has a tendency toward arrogance. You also know that he is brave, principled, and fiercely protective of his loved ones. And besides all that, you know that he survived for three decades fighting and overcoming various threats to his life in countless dimensions. If anyone can handle himself in the wilderness, it's Ford.

That's assuming, of course, he wasn't just humoring you, and his offer to take you was a serious one.

Hoping you're not making an enormous mistake, you start your engine and pull out of the parking lot. Retracing your route from last night, you drive until you find the turn-off for Northwest Manor. In the light of day, the mansion seems a little less forbidding, but no less impressive. You can see no fewer than four chimneys on its steeply-sloped roof, and more windows than you can count. Giant statues of elk adorn each corner of the tall brick fence surrounding the estate.

Parking your car, you get out and approach the gate. The doors are closed, but you remember the call box set in the wall. Ignoring the keypad, you press the 'call' button. A buzzer sounds, and after a few seconds, the gates swing open.

Stepping through, you look around the courtyard. On either side of the fountain, the letters N and W have at one time been shaped from boxwood hedges, but are now looking rather unkempt. Rows of arborvitaes line the drive and the front of the mansion. To one side, you see a cherry red '65 El Diablo convertible with a white roof. Its license plate reads 'STNLYMBL'.

Smiling to yourself, you continue up the drive until you reach a pair of massive oak doors. You don't see a doorbell, so you knock as hard as you can, your knuckles stinging slightly from the impact. You can hear it echoing inside, but no other sound reaches your ears.

You're about to knock again when one of the doors opens under your raised fist, and Ford Pines stands beaming in the doorway.

"Ah, good, you're here," he says, beckoning you inside. "Come on in."

He leads you through a foyer, and then you find yourself in a grand two-story hall, with gleaming parquet floors and chandeliers dripping with crystals. Several curtained alcoves line the walls on both sides, and a large curving staircase leads to the second floor, which is visible past a balcony railing. You can't begin to guess how much the rugs cost, but you're pretty sure it's more than your first car. 

"Don't worry about your shoes — well, all right," Ford says as you unlace your grubby hiking boots and leave them in the foyer. Now that you're looking closely, you observe that his own boots aren't much cleaner. "I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Take a cup?"

 _Coffee_. You realize you haven't had any today. "I'd love one," you reply.

"Kitchen's this way."

You follow him through the hall and down a corridor lined with creepy paintings and busts depicting haughty figures — all Northwests, no doubt. He takes you to a huge chef's kitchen, where you find yourself becoming distinctly envious of the marble counters, the multiple sinks and ovens, and the enormous six-burner gas range. And... is that a subzero refrigerator? How disgustingly unfair.

You watch as Ford opens a cupboard and retrieves two coffee mugs. For once he's not wearing his long coat, and the sleeves of his turtleneck are pushed up to the elbow, exposing his forearms. Your gaze falls on a number of scars, some old and some more recent, partially hidden under a layer of hair. Certain he would not appreciate you staring, you quickly look away.

He moves to a shiny, professional coffee maker and pours a cup for you both. "Sugar, cream?" He opens the refrigerator and makes a disgruntled sound. "Scratch that, no cream."

You assure him that black is fine, and accept the cup he holds out to you. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience entertaining guests," he explains by way of an apology. He clears his throat. "Umm... Can I tempt you with a slightly expired Danish?"

You're forced to set down your coffee to avoid burning yourself as a laugh escapes you. "No, thanks."

A crooked smile briefly graces his lips. "So," he says, taking a sip from his own mug, "may I assume by your presence here that you deciphered my last message?"

In answer, you take the paper with the solved cipher from your pocket and smooth it out on the counter. As he leans over and reads it, his smile widens. "Excellent," he says, straightening and pushing his glasses up his nose. "It wasn't too difficult, I trust?"

"Are you kidding?" you say dryly. "It nearly broke my brain. Ultimately, I was forced to cheat and use Google. I'd never heard of a Vigenère cipher before. I'm not even certain I'm pronouncing it correctly."

Ford shakes his head dismissively. "Never mind that. Your method isn't important. What matters is you solved it. Well done."

You feel your face grow warm at his sincere commendation. You don't suppose you'll ever get used to that. "I'll admit, it was a lot easier when I realized the keyword was 'Mighty Mouse'," you say with a smile.

He chuckles. "Yes, I hope you don't mind," he says. "It seemed fitting. Particularly after yesterday."

You cringe in embarrassment at the reminder. "I still feel terrible about that," you murmur. "How's your shoulder today?"

He waves off your concern. "Oh, fine, fine," he says absently. "And don't apologize. Not many people have gotten the best of me like that."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you ask jokingly.

Ford smiles. "If you like."

At that moment you hear the sound of footsteps, and you turn just in time to see his brother Stan shuffle into the kitchen, wearing nothing but an undershirt, boxer shorts, and a pair of very dingy slippers. A chain with a gold medallion hangs from his neck, nestled in a thatch of gray hair. Oh, God. The hair. It's... _everywhere._

"Oh, wow," you blurt, carefully averting your eyes.

"Stanley!" Ford barks in a reprimanding tone. "Put some pants on, for God's sake. Can't you see we have a guest?" 

"Of course I can see," Stan grouses, getting another mug from the cupboard. "I'm not blind, Poindexter. Not yet, anyway." He turns to you with a nod of greeting. "Hey, kid, how's it hanging?" 

"I wouldn't know," you say, sipping your coffee and looking anywhere but at him.

Ford sighs and puts a six-fingered hand to his forehead. "I apologize for my brother's... pantslessness. Where were we?" 

Ah, yes. The whole reason you came here in the first place. "I think you were about to say you were going to take me to see a plaidypus," you say, unable to keep the hopeful note out of your voice. "That is, if the offer still stands."

"Of course," he replies promptly, to your relief. "It's been ages since I've seen one in the wild. Endearing little critters." With one gulp, he knocks back the rest of his coffee in a way that would have scalded the ever-loving shit out of your own mouth. "A few quick questions first. You're not wearing any perfume, or anything else with a strong scent?" 

You bring a lock of hair to your nose and sniff it. "Nope. Other than Abuelita's porridge, maybe."

"That's no matter," says Ford. "If anything, it'll make you more attractive." At your widened eyes, he adds hastily, "To our quarry, I mean."

Stan snorts into his coffee. "You're real weird, Sixer."

"I believe that's been established," is his brother's peeved reply. "Now then. I know you brought sturdy hiking shoes, so that won't be an issue. Do you have any difficulty sitting silently in one place for extended amounts of time?"

You stare at him. "Ford, I'm a librarian. We've practically turned being quiet into an art form."

Ford laughs outright at this. "Touché," he says, rubbing his chin. "Last question. I, err... don't suppose you happen to have a ham sandwich in that backpack of yours, do you?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head.

"Ah, well," he sighs, "no harm in asking. Ready?"

You drain the last of your coffee, eyes watering at the temperature, and give a thumbs up. "Absolutely."

He turns to his brother. "Stan, are you coming?"

Stan gives a shrug. "Meh. Think I'll sit this one out. There's a _Ducktective_ marathon this afternoon."

"Right." Ford gives a wan smile. He looks as if he's trying not to appear disappointed. "Well, come on," he says to you. "We're burning daylight."

You follow him through the mansion and back into the great hall, where he stops in one of the alcoves to grab his trench coat. You watch in undisguised interest and no small amount of alarm as he also picks up a strange, futuristic-looking gun and slings the holster across his chest. "For emergencies," he tells you, shrugging his coat on. All you can do is nod.

He explains that the creatures you're looking for typically make their homes in burrows on the riverbank. The river is not far away, and the hike from the mansion is an easy one, almost entirely downhill. As you walk through the forest, you find yourself stealing glances every now and then at Ford. He really is in his element out here, completely at ease. In contrast, he seemed a bit uncomfortable at the restaurant last night, like he felt out of place. It must be hard, you think, coming back to this place, after three decades of traveling the multiverse. Does he miss the excitement of hopping from dimension to dimension? Or is the normalcy a welcome change?

"Out with it," says Ford, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught off guard. "Sorry?" 

He glances over at you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "I know that look. I've seen it on my nephew's face countless times. It's the look of someone who's about to explode from the effort of holding in their questions. Go on, ask me anything." 

You chuckle nervously, embarrassed at being called out. "Actually, I was wondering, what's it like being back on Earth, after being gone for thirty years?" 

Ford takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "It's a lot to get used to," he admits. "The technological advances that have been made over the years are nothing short of incredible. I'm still catching up in that respect. I will say, I have gotten pretty good at texting. And I'm loving this thing called Wikipedia. Some of its entries are spurious, no doubt, but I've found that most of the scientific material is accurate." 

You suppress a smile at the mental image of Stanford Pines going down an information rabbit hole. It seems very in-character for him. "What else?" you ask. 

He thinks for a moment. "Culture shock is a big one. I don't think I'll ever figure out you young people, with your memes and your selfies and your Pokémons and your Honey Boo Boos."

You can't help laughing at this bleak summation of modern pop-culture. Ouch.

"When I left, there was one _Star Trek_ ," he continues. "Now there are too many to count, and they..." He shakes his head. "Dammit, they just don't have the cheesy appeal of the original."

"Can't argue with you there," you agree.

"And..." He hesitates, chewing his bottom lip. "Is it my imagination, or have humans gotten dumber? Not you, of course," he quickly amends.

You snort. "Nice save. And no, it's not your imagination. Have you ever read _Fahrenheit 451_?" 

"Naturally." 

"In some ways, it turned out to be prophetic. Immediate access to information and entertainment has its advantages, but it also makes people intellectually lazy and reliant on instant gratification. As a result, they require constant stimuli in order to stay occupied." A sour look crosses your features. "Also, autocorrect is turning everyone into idiots. Soon there will be an entire generation of people who have no idea know how to spell 'definitely'." 

"You're a cheery one, aren't you?" 

You laugh again. 

You continue walking for a while, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the trees and hitting your shoulders. "This is pleasant," says Ford after a short lull. "With Fiddleford away in D.C., it's been a while since I've had an intellectual discussion with someone. That's not to say that Stanley isn't intelligent," he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I wouldn't be here if he hadn't had the brains and determination to reactivate the portal. He's just... not academically inclined." 

He appears almost guilty for admitting such a thing. "Well, not everyone is lucky enough to possess the social ineptitude and sheer self-loathing necessary to be a nerd, like us," you say jokingly. "He has plenty of other strengths."

"Yes. He does. He's..." He smiles. "He's truly special."

The pride in his voice is hard to miss. You recall a line in his journal, which he wrote just after Stan defeated Bill Cipher and put an end to Weirdmageddon, at the cost of his own memories:

_**Stanley Pines was the man who saved the world, not me. I spent so long thinking he was a selfish jerk, and he turned out to be the most selfless man I've ever met in any dimension. If I'm totally honest, I must admit that he's a hero, and I'm... a hero's brother.** _

_**And I'm okay with that.** _

You wonder how much of that incident Stan actually remembers. After all, he eventually regained his memories of Ford, and of Dipper and Mabel and Soos. Does that mean his memories of Bill could also come back? What would happen then?

At last your curiosity gets the best of you. "May I ask you something?" you say hesitantly, picking your way over a tangle of roots in the ground.

"Go ahead," Ford replies.

"How much does Stan know about Bill Cipher?"

There's no answer, and you look up to find your companion has fallen behind. "Ford?" you prompt, turning around.

But Ford is frozen in place. His expression has gone slack, his gaze fixed and far away. The only movement you can detect is from his hands, which hang limply at his sides, trembling uncontrollably. 

"Oh, shit," you whisper. You've seen this before. As a matter of fact, you've experienced it firsthand.

Before you can think about what you're doing, you take his hand in yours and squeeze it hard. "Hey, it's okay," you say, your voice low and firm. With your other hand, you grip his upper arm, giving him something to anchor him to reality. You find yourself saying the same words you've told yourself on many occasions: "He's gone. That's all in the past. You're safe now. He can't hurt you. You're safe."

You continue repeating these words, over and over, until finally Ford blinks rapidly behind his glasses, and his gaze becomes more focused. He releases a slow, shuddering breath and runs his free hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end.

"I'm sorry," he manages, sounding mortified.

Your hand tightens around his. "Don't be," you tell him firmly. "I'm the one who should apologize. I should have known better than to mention... _him._ "

"No, no. It was a valid question."

He clears his throat, attempting to collect himself. When he seems calm enough, you let go of his hand and step back, allowing him some space. It's the least you can do, after inadvertently giving the poor man a panic attack. _Oh, Ford,_ you think, your heart twisting in sympathy. _What did that psychopath do to you?_

After a moment, he continues. "Stan doesn't remember anything about..." He swallows and tries again. "About Bill. And that's how it has to be. I erased him from Stan's mind, but... I also erased all of Stan's other memories, and they came back anyway. So far he still has no recollection of Weirdmageddon, and to ensure that it stays that way, the entire town has agreed never to bring it up again. But if he were to remember... I'm not sure what would happen. It could possibly open up a way for Bill to come back. Or it could do absolutely nothing." He turns to you. "But just to be safe, I hope I can trust you never to utter his name in my brother's presence." 

You nod. "Of course," you say softly.

Ford attempts a shaky smile. "Thank you. Now let's go find a plaidypus."

Feeling like the worst person in the world, you follow him as he sets off again through the woods. As you do so, you can't help but wonder how many times he's experienced those bouts of terror and panic, and how many of them he had to endure entirely on his own. The thought is enough to make you physically ill.

Before long, you can hear the sound of rushing water, telling you that the river is close. Over Ford's shoulder, you can make out the glint of the sun reflecting off the surface of the water. The river is wide and deep here, but rather slow-moving. The ideal spot, Ford informs you, for a plaidypus burrow.

Sure enough, as you draw closer, you can make out webbed tracks in the muddy shoreline. Ford points to a spot near the water's edge, and you follow the direction of his finger until you see it: a small den carved into the side of the riverbank. Digging a penlight out of an inner coat pocket, he carefully approaches the den and shines the light inside.

"Empty," he says, stepping back. "But definitely not abandoned. We'll have to conceal ourselves somewhere and wait for it to return."

You find a spot behind a clump of giant chain ferns and prepare for a long wait. At first you try to remain balanced on your haunches, but after a while your hamstrings begin to scream in protest, and you give up and kneel in the mud. Less dignified, but infinitely more comfortable. Ford, for his part, sits perfectly motionless, the bottom of his coat wicking the moisture from a puddle. He doesn't appear in the least bothered by it.

You're not sure how long you sit there, staring at the river's edge, but eventually you feel Ford reach out and tap your arm.

You don't know how he could have anticipated it, but there it is. With no more warning than a series of tiny ripples on the surface, a small creature emerges from the water and begins to waddle up the shore. It looks just like a platypus, but instead of a shiny brown pelt, it's sporting a perfect red and black tartan pattern. There's no way this can be a real animal. It looks like the result of Photoshop and a little too much whiskey.

Ford leans in close, his glasses bumping the side of your face. "Well?" he whispers. "Is it everything you thought it would be and more?"

"It's the most adorable thing I've ever seen," you whisper back, causing him to chuckle warmly in your ear.

You watch it for a while, entranced. "Do you want its pelt?" Ford asks after a moment.

You whip your head around to regard him with horror. "We are not killing this beautiful creature, Stanford," you hiss at him.

"No, no, I'd never harm the animal," he assures you, clearly trying not to laugh at your righteous indignation. "In fact, 'pelt' is probably not the most accurate term. It's more like a fleece. When frightened, the plaidypus sheds it all at once in order to make its escape. Like an octopus or a starfish shedding an arm." 

You shake your head, turning back to the river. "I'd rather not disturb it." 

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. But you'll never find a warmer pair of socks." 

"Ford?" 

"Hmm?" 

"What is that?"

He follows your gaze to the water's edge, where you've been watching a trail of bubbles moving closer to the shore. Slowly, a shape breaks the glassy surface of the water. All you can do is stare as a hideous, scaly creature rises from the river, standing on two legs and sporting a set of vicious-looking claws on each webbed hand. It has a shell on its back and a beaky mouth, and on its bald head appears to be a concave bowl filled with water. It looks like an unholy cross between Gollum and a turtle.

"Ohhh, _shit_ ," Ford whispers.

"What?" you ask, alarmed.

"It's a kappa. Don't move. I don't think it's spotted us." 

The word sparks something in the recesses of your mind, a bit of useless trivia stored away during one of your countless reading sessions. Something from Japanese forklore... a water imp that pulls people and livestock down to a watery death. "A kappa? As in, the Japanese demon? What's it doing _here?_ " 

Ford shakes his head minutely. "I have no idea." 

You can't seem to tear your eyes away from the creature's claws as it makes its way up the riverbank toward the unsuspecting plaidypus. "That thing does not look friendly," you decide.

"No," Ford agrees. "On my signal, back slowly away—" 

You rise up on your knees unthinkingly as the kappa reaches out with a lightning-quick motion and snatches the little animal in its clawed hands, causing it to squeal in fear and pain. "It's going to eat the plaidypus!" you hiss.

Ford puts a hand on your shoulder, attempting to pull you out of sight. "We can't interfere—" 

But it's too late. The kappa has seen you. Hissing and dropping the injured plaidypus on the ground, the water demon comes toward you, claws extended. You and Ford scramble to your feet, and he pushes you behind his back, drawing his futuristic gun from its holster.

"Don't take another step," he warns the creature.

"I don't think it knows English," you tell him.

The kappa swipes at Ford, but he ducks out of the way, firing his gun at it. The device gives a high-pitched whine, but nothing happens. "Oh, no," he says, his eyes wide.

He tries to fire again, but it appears to be jammed. Gripping the barrel, he prepares to defend himself with the butt of the device. The kappa advances on him, snarling.

Suddenly you remember something from your endless hours of reading about mythology around the world. Unless you're completely mistaken, you think you read somewhere that if you knock the water out of the depression on a kappa's head, it becomes severely weakened.

You swallow hard. Time to see if all that reading paid off.

" _Hey!_ "

The kappa turns toward you, and you slowly move backwards, drawing it away from Ford and back down toward the river. Your heart is pounding in your ears, making it hard to hear anything, but you think you hear Ford shouting your name. Taking a deep breath, you put your shaking hands together, and bow deeply.

For a moment, the kappa simply stares at you. Ever so slowly, it starts to bow back.

...And then it stops and snarls again. 

Nope. Worth a shot, anyway.

Picking up a soggy branch, you swing it at the kappa's head, but the creature is too quick. It grabs the stick in its webbed hands, trying to pull it from your grasp. With all your strength, you pull back, putting your whole weight into it. The kappa loses its balance and stumbles forward, and the water in the dish on its head sloshes out on the ground. With a scream, it falls, scrabbling in the mud on all fours, struggling to get back to the river.

You gasp as you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you whirl around, branch still in your hands. "Wait, wait, it's me!" Ford shouts. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here!"

"Wait!" Dropping the branch, you reach down and scoop up the injured plaidypus, tucking the animal under your arm like a football. " _Now_ let's get the hell out of here!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. But also I'm not sorry. That was way too much fun.


	6. I've Been Traumatized!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally write this quickly, but I got into a serious thing. Also, I threw a _Parks and Rec_ AND a _Battlestar Galactica_ reference in this chapter. See if you can spot them.

You're not out of shape, by any means, but by the time you and Ford stop running, your lungs are on fire, there's a stitch in your side, and your heart feels like it's on the verge of bursting from your ribcage. Your limbs are trembling, and, absurdly, you can feel a hysterical laugh threatening to escape your lips. Ford, on the other hand, appears only slightly winded, as if he does this sort of thing every day. That's... probably not too far from the truth.

"I think we're safe now," is the first thing he says as you come to a halt in the middle of a patch of wild bluebells. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," you answer breathlessly. "Yes, I'm all right." You look down at the animal still clutched in your arms. "Although I can't say the same for our little friend here."

The plaidypus is curled up against your shirt, shaking like a leaf. From what you're able to determine, it seems to have sustained some gashes along its side from the kappa's claws. The wounds are long and oozing blood, but they don't appear to be deep.

"Poor little guy," you commiserate, holding it close to your chest. "Or girl. I'm not really an expert on plaidypus dimorphism."

Ford moves in close and gently turns the terrified animal in your arms, inspecting its abdomen. "Girl," he says after a moment, stroking its soft belly. "The females have pouches to carry their young, like a regular platypus. She's a young adult, by the looks of it. You can see her pattern has only recently come in. Old enough to have left the nest, but not old enough to have found a mate of her own."

"What should we do?" you ask worriedly. "We can't just leave her out here like this."

"We'll take her back to the manor," he says, stepping back. "I can clean her wounds and stitch her up there."

You cast him a grateful smile, and the pair of you begin walking back toward the mansion at a much more sustainable pace. At one point, Ford bends down and inexplicably grabs a handful of pine needles from the forest floor, stuffing them into his trouser pocket. Okay, then.

As you walk, the reality of what just transpired starts to sink in, and you find yourself struggling to process it. Your legs feel unusually heavy and cumbersome, and more than once you only narrowly avoid tripping over a rock or an exposed root.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Ford presses, glancing over at you. "You're shaking almost as much as the plaidypus."

You nod in what you hope is a reassuring manner. "I'm fine. Just the adrenaline wearing off." You look down at your feet, forcing yourself to focus on where you're stepping. "Whew, that was... insane."

You feel a hand on your arm, urging you to stop walking for a moment. You look up to see Ford frowning down his nose at you in concern. And then, to your surprise, he shrugs out of his mud-spattered trench coat and drapes it over your shoulders. "I'll admit I wasn't expecting an encounter with such a dangerous creature," he says awkwardly, his cheeks slightly pink. "I hope you're not too traumatized."

You can't help the giddy laugh that bursts from your throat. "Oh, I'm _fully_ traumatized, but it was worth it," you reply as you resume walking. "I mean, did you see that thing? That wasn't some guy in a rubber suit. That was a real live kappa! That actually _happened!_ "

Ford looks at you as if gauging your mental soundness. "Indeed," he murmurs.

You take a deep breath in an effort to compose yourself. It doesn't work. Now that your initial shock is wearing off, every nerve ending is buzzing with excitement. "I'm sorry, I know this probably isn't a big deal to you," you continue, aware of how deranged you sound, but unable to stop, "but it is a _huge_ deal to me! Reading about unicorns and scampfires in your journal — hell, even seeing physical evidence of tree giants is one thing. But _that_ was like... like nothing I've ever seen before. If something like that thing really exists, then what about all the other legends and cryptids around the world? The Loch Ness monster? The chupacabra? The Australian yowie? Who's to say they're not _all_ real?"

You cease your fevered rambling when you finally become aware of how Ford is looking at you. He has an odd smile on his unshaven face, and his eyes are shining with something like... approval? No, that can't be right.

"You sound exactly like me, after my first cryptid encounter," he says. "Of course, I was much younger than you are, but I still recall that feeling of exhiliration. That realization that the world is so much bigger than you thought, that... that nothing would ever be the same again."

"What was your first encounter?" you ask curiously.

He grins broadly. "Stan and I were nearly killed by the Jersey Devil when we were kids."

"No shit," you blurt, making him snicker. "Seriously? He's real, too?"

"Very real," he confirms. "Of course, our parents didn't believe us when we told them. Eventually even Stan managed to convince himself that we'd imagined the whole thing, built it up in our minds to be more than it was. But not me. I knew what I saw."

"And that's what got you interested in cryptozoology?"

Ford shakes his head. "No, I've been fascinated by the bizarre for as long as I can remember. That incident merely cemented my obsession."

You smile to yourself. This guy is like a real life version of Fox Mulder. Not that you can blame him for his enthusiasm. You've only seen a kappa and a plaidypus, but it's safe to say you're already in danger of sharing his obsession.

As if in response to your thoughts, the plaidypus in your arms wiggles around, adjusting its position until its soft, squishy bill is burrowed in the crook of your neck. Immediately your heart melts. "You were right about this thing," you say to Ford, who is watching the interaction with obvious amusement. "She really does smell exactly like maple syrup and bacon. This is literally the perfect animal."

"Don't get too attached," Ford warns you.

"Too late," you sigh. "I would die for you, plaidypus." 

"You very nearly did," he reminds you dryly, his eyebrow arched.

You feel your face and the tips of your ears grow hot at the reminder. "Yeah," you say reluctantly, "I suppose I should apologize for alerting that thing to our presence. That was a pretty bone-headed move."

Ford shrugs. "Don't feel too bad. I've done far more reckless things in the name of scientific discovery. At least you didn't go chasing after Steve with a bullhorn." He clears his throat and adds, "Besides, you were trying to protect a defenseless creature. That was... commendable."

You hide a smile in the turned-up collar of your borrowed trench coat. "So what happened with your sci-fi space laser?" you ask, jerking your chin toward the gun strapped to his side.

At this his expression sours. "The firing mechanism jammed," he grumbles. "Finding the means to maintain my various devices in this dimension has proven frustratingly difficult. If it hadn't been for your quick thinking..." He turns to you, his brow furrowed in naked curiosity. "What was all that back there, anyway? With the bowing?"

You cringe self-consciously at the question. "Oh, _that._ I read somewhere that if you bow to a kappa, it can't help but return it, which in turn causes it to spill the water on its head. It seems I was misinformed. That thing was definitely not interested in etiquette." 

"Still, you managed to subdue it," he says. "That was no small feat. How did you know that knocking the water from its head would weaken it?"

You're not sure how to answer his inquiry in a way that doesn't sound incredibly sad. "I don't know, I just... I read things," you say, looking steadily ahead of you and trying not to blush. "Whatever I can get my hands on. Whether it's the history of the fur trade in New England, or the color-changing chromatophores on a cuttlefish, or... creepy critters in Japanese folklore. I'm not picky." 

Ford abruptly halts in his tracks, forcing you to stop walking as well. For a long moment, he simply stares at you. "Do you have any idea how remarkable that makes you?" he asks at last.

You swallow. "That's... not the adjective I'd use," you say with a weak chuckle.

"And what word would you use?" he persists.

You shrug. "Hopelessly nerdy?" 

"And I'm not?" 

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, but you're nerdy in a kind of cool, kickass way." 

Ford shakes his head. "Don't sell yourself short," he tells you. "You just single-handedly defeated a Japanese water demon. You are a force to be reckoned with... Mighty Mouse." 

With a friendly pat on your shoulder, he steps around you and resumes walking, leaving you to stare at his back, a stammering, blushing mess. He really needs to stop complimenting you like that. It's quite unfair, when you have no idea how you're supposed to respond.

You quicken your pace until you catch up with him. "What the hell is a kappa doing here, anyway?" you ask, trying to redirect the conversation away from you. "Oregon is a long way from Japan." 

"I'm afraid its presence here confirms my theory that the weirdness field is getting stronger," he replies. "If I'm correct, it won't be the last non-native anomaly we'll see here in Gravity Falls. What concerns me is that the delicate balance of this place may be disrupted by the influx of new cryptids from all over the globe."

"Like an invasive species introduced to a fragile ecosystem," you murmur, looking down at the plaidypus in your arms. Burmese pythons and snakehead fish in Florida. Rabbits and cane toads in Australia. Black rats... pretty much everywhere. Historically, such introductions have rarely turned out well.

You wish you knew more about this so-called 'weirdness field'. What exactly is it? How long has it been here? Where does it originate? Is it naturally occurring, or did some outside force put in place? Possibly something extraterrestrial? Your head is practically bursting with a million questions, but for some reason, you hesitate to voice any of them to Ford. He's already been kind enough to bring you out here. You don't want to become a nuisance.

Instead you try to focus on the walk back to the mansion. The return hike is more strenuous than the trip down, and you find yourself huffing and puffing by the time you reach the top of the hill on which Northwest Manor is situated. You wait as Ford punches in the code for the gate and then ushers you through.

Stan is waiting in the foyer, thankfully dressed this time. He's wearing jeans and a light blue shirt that seems at least a size too small, his beefy arms threatening to tear the overtaxed seams. He greets the pair of you with a wink and a pair of finger guns.

"Say," he says with a roguish grin, "is that a plaidypus in your coat, or are you happy to..." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll stop."

Ford takes the trench coat from your shoulders, and you murmur your thanks. For the first time, Stan notices the oozing gashes on the plaidypus's side. "Hey, what happened to it?" he asks, frowning.

"It was attacked," Ford tells him as you all move into the great hall. "By a kappa." 

"A copper?" Stan's eyes dart around in undisguised alarm. "Where?" 

"Kappa," you correct him, stifling a laugh. You spell the word for him. "Ugly man-eating turtle demon from Japan." 

He gives a grunt. "Glad I stayed behind." 

Ford hangs up his coat and gun holster and gestures for you to follow him. "This way. I think I saw a first aid kit in one of these bathrooms." 

Stan wanders off somewhere, and Ford leads you down a corridor and into a huge, luxurious bathroom with marble countertops, a floor-to-ceiling steam shower, heated towel racks, and a jacuzzi tub that looks like it could fit four people. You set your backback on the floor and sit down on the edge of the tub, while Ford rummages around in the cupboards in search of the first aid kit.

"This bathroom is bigger than my room at the Mystery Shack," you say, shaking your head. For some reason, this remark causes Ford to heave a sigh, his head hanging dramatically between his shoulders. "What's wrong?" you ask him.

"Oh, nothing," he says hollowly. "It's just that I die a bit on the inside every time someone calls my old cabin by that name." 

Biting the inside of your cheek to curb your smile, you watch as he pulls a red first aid kit from the medicine cabinet and shuts the door. He grabs a stool from under the vanity mirror and brings it over to you. "It'll be easier to stitch up her wounds if she sheds her pelt," he says as he sits down in front of you, his knees brushing yours. "You'll have to hold her tightly to keep her calm. Kissing her on the forehead helps, too." 

"My heart can't take this," you joke.

Ford smiles. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out the pine needles he collected in the forest and holds them in front of the plaidypus's bill. With a violent sneeze, its pelt falls away in one single piece, landing in your lap. Ford picks it up and sets it aside, and a shiver passes through you as you see three long tears from where the kappa slashed at it. That could have been you, you realize.

You hold the now hairless plaidypus against your chest as Ford sterilizes his hands with an alcohol wipe, and proceeds to disinfect the animal's wounds. It squeals in pain at the antiseptic, and you find yourself whispering soothing words into where you think its ear might be, and even dropping kisses on its velvety pink forehead. You feel more than a tad foolish, but it seems to work. Eventually the little creature calms down enough to allow Ford to stitch up the worst of its wounds.

Your eyes follow the fluid movement of Ford's hands as he expertly threads the curved needle through the plaidypus's skin, tying off each stitch and snipping the end with a pair of suture scissors. "You're a pro with that needle," you comment after a while.

He chuckles under his breath. His glasses have slipped halfway down his nose, making him look like an intensely studious owl. "I ought to be, after all the times I've had to use one on myself," he replies.

You wince. "I'm sorry." 

He shrugs his shoulders minutely. "I'm not. I picked up a lot of valuable skills during my thirty-year field trip. I learned to survive in the wild, pilot alien spacecrafts, speak languages no one in this dimension could even conceive of..." 

"Got adorable tattoos," you add teasingly, remembering a certain illustration of a star-shaped tattoo he drew in his journal.

Ford narrows his eyes exaggeratedly at you over his glasses. "Don't ever bring that up again," he says, though you could swear he's visibly fighting a smile.

"I won't... All-Star." He pokes you in the leg with the toe of his boot, making you snort with laughter.

He continues stitching up the plaidypus, and you fall silent to allow him to work. As you watch him, a sense of surreality washes over you. You've known Stanford Pines personally for a little over three weeks, but even now, your mind is still having difficulty reconciling the mysterious Author of the journals with the affable, crazy-haired academic sitting in front of you. As much as you admired the Ford from the journals for his insatiable curiosity and dedication to his work, he also struck you as someone who was rather stuck-up and self-important, someone who took himself far too seriously. The old Ford would likely have gotten bent out of shape over your teasing. But this Ford seems much more relaxed and confident in his own skin. Sailing with his twin brother must have been good for him.

At one point, Stan comes in, leaves two cold cans of Pitt cola on the edge of the bathtub, and walks out again without comment. You and Ford share a look, and you both smile. For a cantankerous old coot, his brother is surprisingly endearing.

At last Ford ties off the last of the sutures and reaches for a roll of gauze bandages. At his instructions, you hold the plaidypus up, and he begins dressing the wounds in gauze. Then he wraps the animal with a stretchy self-adhering bandage tape. Finally he sits back, stretching his spine with an audible pop.

"That should do it," he says. "She'll have to stay with you until the stitches can be removed. I'll send some gauze home with you to change the dressing. And make sure she doesn't get wet. Considering she's a semi-aquatic animal, that may not be as easy as it sounds." 

"I'll do my best," you promise as he clears the medical supplies away and washes his hands. "Nicely done, Doc. And thank you for indulging me. I couldn't leave her behind." 

"Don't mention it," he says with a smile.

"What do plaidypuses eat, anyway? Or is it 'plaidypi'?" You pull a face. "'Plaidypodes'?" 

"'Plaidypuses' is correct, or just 'plaidypus'," he says, drying his hands. "They'll eat just about anything, but they especially like foods high in carbohydrates. Particularly breakfast food. And they love ham." 

"I knew I liked you," you tell the plaidypus, stroking its head with your fingers. It makes an odd chittering sound.

Ford turns to you, adjusting his glasses. "Her pelt will grow back in about a week. In the meantime, I'd suggest getting a plaidypus-sized shirt for her to wear, to discourage her from scratching at her sutures." He rubs his jaw with two fingers. "It's too bad my niece isn't here. She could knit her a sweater in no time at all." 

That may be more cuteness than you're equipped to handle, you decide.

"One moment," says Ford. He disappears from the bathroom, leaving you with little recourse but to sit there, drinking your soda and wondering how you're going to look after a wild animal. He returns shortly, however, carrying a small cardboard box. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, he places it in the bottom of the box, adding a few extra rolls of gauze, as well. As you tuck the plaidypus inside, he clears his throat. "You may want to change your own shirt at some point," he suggests judiciously.

You look down in dismay to see several blood stains on your shirt from the animal's wounds. Thank goodness you dressed in layers. You peel the shirt off, leaving you in a lighter T-shirt, and stuff the ruined one in your backpack. Oh, well. At least it wasn't one of your favorites.

On the way out, you insist on making a detour in order to say goodbye to Stan. You find him in a spacious but cozy parlor watching television, his feet propped on a very expensive-looking coffee table.

"Thanks for the soda," you tell him.

"Leaving already?" he asks, sitting up straight.

You nod. "Soos's abuelita is going to teach Mel and me how to make chile rellenos. I can't pass that up. And I have to pick up some vittles for my new duck-puppy here," you add, holding up the cardboard box bearing your new charge. 

At your side, Ford snorts. "That is the least scientific description I have ever heard," he mutters.

"Duck-puppy, huh?" says Stan. "You should pass that along to Soos. That would make a great attraction for the Shack."

You laugh. "Sounds like it would give kids nightmares, but what do I know?"

You say your goodbyes, and Ford escorts you to the front door. "Thanks again," you say. "As hectic and downright terrifying as today has been, I actually had a lot of fun."

Ford chuckles. "You're welcome. Come back in a couple weeks, and I'll take the stitches out. Oh, and..." He starts to pat his pockets, then realizes he's not wearing his coat. "Damn, where's my notebook? Do you have a pen?"

"In my backpack, somewhere." You turn your back toward him. "Go ahead and open it, I don't mind."

He steps behind you and unzips the bag, and you can feel him pause briefly as his eyes land on the journal inside. He digs around until he finds the pen, and zips it up again. Then, to your surprise, he takes your hand in his and begins to scribble something on your open palm.

"This better not be another cipher," you say jokingly.

"My phone number," he replies wryly, handing the pen back to you. "I finally joined the twenty-first century and got a cell phone. Call or text me if you have any problems or questions." 

You give him a smile, which he returns. "I will. Bye, Ford."

"Goodbye, Mouse."

It's not until you've gotten in your car, the plaidypus stowed safely in its box on the floor in front of the passenger seat, that you realize what he called you. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to mind.

Before you forget, you transcribe his number into your phone and create a new contact. For the hell of it, you assign him the name 'Ford Prefect'.

You drive back down the hill and into town. On the way home, you make a stop at the local department store, Ted Byer — evidently Gravity Falls's answer to Fred Meyer. (The number of oddly-named knock-off brands in this place is truly puzzling. You've never seen Pitt cola anywhere else in Oregon.) You pick up some food items for the animal in your care, including some oatmeal, ham, and pancake mix. Feeling slightly ridiculous, you also hunt through the children's clothing section, looking for a shirt that will fit a small, duck-billed mammal. Finally you find an infant's shirt with the phrase "Give Me All the Bacon and Eggs You Have" emblazoned on the front. Yep, that's definitely the one.

Back in the car, you rip off the tags and pull the shirt over the plaidypus's head. Surprisingly, the little animal complies with hardly a protest. You wonder how it can be so tame and agreeable, when it likely has had no human interaction before. But then you recall Ford's journal entry, and how a plaidypus waddled right up to McGucket and begged for a bite of his sandwich, heedless of any potential threat he posed. Perhaps they simply have no survival instinct, like the dodo. You sincerely hope that's not the case.

When you arrive at the Shack, Soos seems to have just finished up his last tour for the day. Avoiding the crowd milling around outside the gift shop, you carry the box containing the plaidypus to the private entrance to the cabin and push open the door. The living room is empty, so you pass through to the kitchen, where you find Soos sitting at the table, his suit jacket removed but his fez still perched on his head.

"'Sup, lady-dude?" he greets you.

Abuelita looks up from washing peppers at the sink and smiles at you as you come to join her. "Welcome home, _chiquita_ ," she says. Then she glances down at the plaidypus. "I'll get the meat cleaver." 

"No, no, Abuelita!" you cry out, backing away from her in horror. "We're not cooking her. She's injured. I'm going to be taking care of her for a while." 

Soos pushes back his chair and walks over to get a better look at the animal in your arms. "Hey, a duck-puppy!" he exclaims in delight.

 _Yes,_ you think. _Vindication. Take that, Ford._

Melody enters the kitchen, evidently having closed up the gift shop. Her eyes widen as they land on the box in your arms containing your bizarre patient. "Whoa, what is that thing?" she asks.

That... is a surprisingly complicated question. "Umm... A plaidypus?"

"A _what?_ "

"Okay, so..." You struggle to explain what happened in a way that won't make your cousin terrified of Gravity Falls forever, but also doesn't make you sound like a loon. "You know how this town is kind of strange?"

Melody snorts. "I mean, yeah. I was attacked by possessed robots at a kid's restaurant when I was staying here last summer."

"Right, right." You almost forgot that was how she and Soos got together in the first place. "Well, it turns out that the woods around the town have some pretty strange things in them, too. This plaidypus here is one of them. Ford — that is, Dr. Pines — offered to take me to see one in the wild. We found one, but it was injured." Tactfully, you omit exactly _how_ it got injured. "Dr. Pines was kind enough to patch her up, but I'm going to have to keep an eye on her until she's recovered."

Your cousin frowns as she bends over the box to stare at it. "Why is it naked?" she asks, quite understandably.

"She, uhh..." Boy, this is a weird conversation. "She sneezed her fur off." 

Melody blinks, nonplussed. "Oh. Of course."

Soos, for his part, doesn't look nearly as surprised to see such an absurd creature in his kitchen. Of course, he lived through Weirdmageddon and, by all accounts, even became some kind of folk hero, so it's unlikely that anything would faze him at this point. You watch as he tickles the plaidypus under the chin, causing it to make that contented chittering sound again. Maybe, you think, it's time to tell him how much you know.

You set the box on the kitchen table and turn to him. "Soos, can I talk to you for a second? Mel, maybe you could see if she's hungry. Dr. Pines said she likes breakfast food. And don't let Abuelita cook her."

You leave your puzzled cousin and take Soos into the living room. "What's up?" he asks you.

All at once, your initial resolve fails you, and you find yourself groping for words. Where do you even begin? "Do you know what a kappa is?" you say at last. 

His reply is immediate: "Oh, you mean the water yokai of Japanese folklore that's known for drowning cattle and stealing people's souls through their butts?" 

You were definitely not aware of that last little tidbit. "Uhh... yeah, that one." 

"Sure, why?" 

You take a deep breath. "Ford and I saw one."

You're slightly gratified to get a reaction out of him at this, even if it's just a raised eyebrow. "No way," he says. "Here, in Gravity Falls?"

"It came out of the river while we were watching the plaidypus," you continue. "That's how she got injured. We managed to fight it off, but... those things aren't supposed to be here. Ford thinks that whatever force it is that draws weird stuff to this place, it's getting stronger." 

He shakes his head. "That's cray-cray." Then he frowns. "So how come you and Dr. Pines are buddies now?" 

_Here goes nothing._ Shrugging your backpack off of your shoulders, you unzip the main compartment and take out Ford's journal.

Soos's eyes grow round as saucers. "Duuuude," he blurts.

As quickly as you possibly can, you explain how the journal ended up in your hands, how you accidentally ran into the Pines brothers in the woods, and how Ford, with his dorky coded message, invited you to accompany him into the forest to see a plaidypus. Soos listens silently, his mouth slightly agape.

By the time you finally finish talking, he's staring at you like he's found the Holy Grail or something. "You are the Chosen One," he breathes in a hushed, reverent voice, his hands clasped like he's the subject in some Renaissance painting. "So say we all."

"All right," you say, rolling your eyes. "Enough of that. How much does Melody know about all this stuff?" 

Soos rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, she knows some stuff," he replies. "She knows this place definitely isn't normal. And she knows that the Mr. Pineses are like, adventure twins, and that the Shack used to be Dr. Pines's science lab. I told her not to go into the woods by herself, and to avoid any doors with the number thirteen on 'em. That freaked her out, for sure." He hesitates. "I, uh... haven't told her much about Weirdmageddon, though. She knows something big went down, but for Mr. Pines's sake, we don't talk about it." 

That reminds you of something you've been dying to ask him. "Is the portal still downstairs?" 

He shakes his head firmly. "No, man. Before the Mr. Pineses left on their boat trip, we all pitched in and tore out everything from the old lab. It's just a basement now. I've taken Melody down there. I guess you could move down there if you wanted? It's a lot roomier than the attic." 

"No, thanks," you say instantly. The thought of living down there, in the same place where Ford was sucked into another dimension and lost for thirty years, is not one that appeals to you at all. "So Mel knows about the basement. But she doesn't know about Weirdmageddon, or about Bill Cipher. Wait, what are you doing?"

Before you can finish your sentence, Soos has lifted you bodily off the floor and into a crushing hug. In the grip of his powerful arms and unable to do anything but hang there in mid-air, legs dangling, you try your hardest not to succumb to a panic attack.

At once he senses your discomfort and sets you on your feet. "Sorry, dude," he says contritely. "I got kinda carried away. It's just super cool to hear you talking about this stuff. I'm not allowed to mention it to any of the others in town, and Melody..." He sighs. "I thought about telling her, but I don't want to scare her, you know? She loves it here. And I... kinda love her." 

You smile up at him. He really is impossibly sweet. "I get it, Soos," you assure him. "I suppose Mel doesn't need to know _everything_... unless the weirdness gets out of control. But if you see anything strange — I mean, beyond the usual amount of strange — let me know." 

He gives you a thumbs-up. "Sure thing, dude." 

Suddenly Melody's voice calls out to you both from the kitchen. "You guys, get in here!"

Your immediate thought is that Soos's grandmother has grabbed a cleaver and is chasing the plaidypus through the house. Edging past Soos, you rush to the kitchen, expecting the worst. Abuelita is still at the sink, to your relief. The plaidypus is on the floor, its bill jammed deep in a bowl of something gloopy, and seems to be enjoying it immensely. Melody is standing over it, beaming like a proud parent.

"I found some of Abuelita's leftover _atole_ -corn-porridge-stuff in the fridge, so I heated it up and gave it to your little... whatever she is," she says with a grin. "She loves it!"

You look down at the plaidypus, its face covered in porridge, entirely focused on its meal. "Wow, she is really going to town," you observe, oddly impressed.

"Go, man, go!" Soos cheers it on.

You chuckle and turn to Melody. She looks so genuinely happy to have found something that this odd little creature likes. And Soos appears just as tickled. Abuelita is... Abuelita, and that's fine, too. Unexpectedly, you feel tears begin to sting your eyes. If someone had told you a year ago that you would someday find yourself in a peaceful, loving environment with a kind, supportive family, you would never have believed it.

"I think you just came up with the perfect name for her, Mel," you tell your cousin with a smile.

"Leftovers?" asks Soos.

You laugh and shake your head. "Porridge." 

"Also good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter was definitely not just me living out my fantasy of owning a pet platypus.


End file.
